Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  Caleb hunched his shoulders inside his heavy coat and with measured steps walked steadily toward the crowd that was gathered in clusters around the fires. None recognized him as he passed, and he was close to the warehouse door, which hung at an awkward angle on one hinge, when Loman, in his threadbare coat, stepped outside, agitated, impatient, and thrust a finger in Caleb’s face.

  “You’re late! We’ve been waiting! There’s over three hundred men in here that’ve paid ten cents each to see this, and they’re getting surly.” The little man’s eyes were accusatory beneath the shaggy brows, and the odor of rum was overpowering on his breath.

  Caleb followed him inside the old structure where more fires burned for light and warmth. Men were jammed to the charred walls, talking, gesturing in the dancing shadows, and the odor of rum and smoke and sweat rode heavy in the air. The crowd quieted and a path opened as Loman led Caleb to an open space in the center of the building, where the old, partially burned wooden floor had been ripped up and thrown out behind the building, leaving a patch of bare earth. Standing to one side of the dirt floor was Judd, wearing an old coat, hands jammed in the pockets, towering head and shoulders above those around him. A wicked leer fixed his face the moment he saw Caleb.

  Loman wasted no time. He stepped to the center of the open place and shouted down the crowd.

  “We’re ready. The rules are that no one can help either man, no matter what. The contest lasts until one of them is down and can’t get up. Neither man can use anything but his own hands and feet. No biting, no eye-gouging.” He stopped to point to his left at a thick-shouldered man with a dirty beard and heavily scarred brows. “Tagger will see to it no one interferes or breaks the rules.”

  He turned to Caleb.

  “You ready? You want your coat off?”

  Caleb unbuttoned his coat and tossed it aside.

  Loman turned to Judd.

  “Coat off?”

  Judd handed his coat to the man next to him, and Loman continued.

  “Either of you want your hands wrapped?”

  Neither did.

  Loman motioned. “Both of you, get out here in the center of the floor.”

  The two walked out to face each other, Judd a full six inches taller than Caleb, and seventy pounds heavier. A murmur ran through the crowd.

  Loman held up an old cloth bag, tied with a scrap of hemp cord. “The purse is fifteen dollars and ten cents, winner takes all. No matter how this turns out, that’s the end of it. Do you both agree?”

  Both men nodded.

  “All right. Start.”

  Loman backed out of the opening, Caleb raised his hands, and Judd started toward him, hunched forward, arms spread, moving ponderously as noise from the crowd began to build. Caleb began a shuffling circle to his left, eyes locked onto Judd’s chest, catching the vision of the whole man as he came on. Judd lunged, reaching, Caleb slid beneath his left arm, and dug his right fist into Judd’s belly as he came past. Judd grunted, recovered, turned, and came at Caleb again. The noise from the crowd mounted as Caleb backed away and continued circling, just out of reach, waiting, watching the frustration and anger mounting in Judd’s eyes. Clearly, Judd intended gathering Caleb inside his massive arms to break bones and rend flesh, and it was just beginning to break clear in Judd’s mind that he could not catch Caleb. He slowed for a moment, then came on with the tumult rising inside the burned-out building.

  Ten seconds passed with Caleb gliding just out of reach, and Judd lunging again, arms thrown wide. Caleb crouched under Judd’s right arm and caught the bigger man on the point of his chin with his right fist as he passed him, and Judd’s head snapped back as Caleb stopped behind him, waiting for Judd to turn, and for a moment Judd stood still, blood starting to trickle from his mouth, confused, unable to find Caleb. When he turned, Caleb hit him over his right ear, and the big man groaned and went to one knee and then got up, head ringing. The din was deafening. Men were shouting for Caleb to finish him, finish him, beat him down.

  Caleb moved back, dropped his hands for a moment while the big man took his bearings, then once again crouched and came lunging, this time swinging his fists like clubs, clumsy, awkward, in the desperate hope one would connect. Caleb moved away, shifted to his left, once again circling, waiting, as Judd came on, swinging blind, desperate, raw fear beginning to show in his eyes and face. Patiently Caleb moved back, waiting for exactly the right moment, sensing it coming, and then it came.

  Judd swung his right hand in a wide, wild arc at Caleb’s head, and Caleb watched it come, judging the timing, and at the last grain of time raised his left shoulder to take most of the blow, and twisted his head away. The massive fist landed high on Caleb’s shoulder and slid off and upward, grazing Caleb’s left temple, and Caleb threw his head to the right as though struck hard and dropped his hands and went to his knees and toppled over and lay still in the dirt. There was silence for an instant and then bedlam, and Judd came at Caleb, kicking, and Tagger grabbed him and jerked him away. Loman strode to Caleb, crumpled in the dirt, and waited for movement or any sign he might get up, but there was none. Satisfied, Loman held up the purse and tossed it to Judd, and it was over. It had taken less than two minutes.

  Lying face down in the dirt, Caleb did not move. He listened while the uproar began to quiet, and he heard the calls from a few that the fight was a fraud to get money and they wanted their ten cents back, and he heard Loman shout back at them that if they thought it was a fraud they were welcome to challenge either Judd or Caleb to a fight for another purse in one week, to satisfy themselves it had not been a fixed fight. None challenged. Slowly the crowd began to break up into small groups and work their way out the door, most complaining they had come to see a real fight, one that lasted half the night and ended with both men beaten bloody. A few passed close to stare down at Caleb, but none stopped. Minutes passed before the ruins of the old warehouse quieted, and Caleb raised his head to peer about in the dim light of the dwindling fires. The last of the crowd was pushing out the doors. The place was nearly vacant.

  Loman was standing at his feet. “Why’d you quit?” he sneered, and threw Caleb’s coat in the dirt near his hand.

  Caleb got to his feet and picked up his coat. He slapped the dirt from it and was putting it on when Loman repeated himself.

  “Why’d you quit?”

  Caleb buttoned his coat, turned up the collar, and started toward the door, Loman following with hurried steps, talking loudly.

  “You gave the fight to him. I saw it. Why?”

  Caleb did not look back, and Loman trotted up beside him.

  “Don’t you know you can get rich with your fists? I can arrange it.”

  Caleb walked out the door, into the darkness lighted only by the flickering light of scattered fires, and turned right toward the docks and his rowboat.

  “Don’t be a fool!” Loman exclaimed, and seized Caleb’s coat sleeve to slow him. “There’s money to be made!”

  Caleb stopped in the deep shadows and lifted Loman’s hand from his coat sleeve.

  “Judd won the purse. By tomorrow morning he’ll be the king of the waterfront, and no one will remember who I am. The next man who wants to be king will have to beat Judd, not me. I don’t fight for money. It’s over.”

  Loman stepped back, eyes large in the shadowy light. “You don’t want money?”

  Caleb’s voice purred. “Don’t talk to me again about money.”

  “You think you can walk away? Those men will remember. You haven’t seen the last of this.”

  “You got your fifteen dollars. This better be the end of it. If it’s not, you’re the first man I come looking for.”

  Loman gaped and backed up a step.

  Caleb turned on his heel and walked away, across the docks, to his rowboat.

  Notes

  The events depicted in this chapter are fictional.

  Boston

  Late January 1784

  CHAPTER XXIII

  *
* *

  At twenty minutes before eleven o’clock, Thomas Chase Covington worked the large brass key to the front door of his shipping firm’s office with fingers white and stiff in the freeze that had crusted Boston harbor with ice for five days. Wisps of vapor rose from his face as he listened to the familiar clicking of the lock bolt withdrawing, and he pushed inside the cold, bare, waterfront office, located less than fifty yards from Griffin’s Wharf. The insides of the frost-coated windows were covered with a dirty film that had collected since the office closed in November, casting the room in a dull, freezing gloom.

  Covington struck flint to steel and nurtured the spark in the tiny iron box of charred linen until smoke, then tiny curls of flame, caught and held. Minutes later he backed away from a newly set fire in the blackened stone fireplace, carrying a pine splinter burning on one end, and went to his desk to light the lamp. The desk, his ancient, worn chair, and four others, were all that remained of the furniture that once served a bustling office with six hired men to keep the accounts of thirteen commercial shipping companies, carrying goods to ports all over the world, and six clerks to assist them.

  He set his hat on the desk, dragged his chair to the fireplace, and sat with hands extended toward the flames, reaching for the warmth that as yet hadn’t spread beyond him into the shadows of the cold, vacant office.

  His faded gray eyes stared into the flames, and his rounded shoulders sagged in utter defeat. Average height and build, he had been a handsome man in times long gone. Forty-two years—his life’s work of building a reputable shipping company—three sons raised in the shipping business—all of it gone. The sons scattered in search of work, the furniture sold, the books of accounts boxed and ready for delivery to two young, desperate men who hoped against harsh reality to succeed where the Covingtons had failed. At age sixty-four, with half the discharged Continental Army frantically searching for any work they could find to feed themselves and their families, there was no one—no one at all—who would consider the once proud and prosperous Thomas Chase Covington for a position commensurate with his proven skills, or any position at all. No one.

  He ran a hand through his thinning hair and unbuttoned his great coat to pull at his scarf.

  Sitting in the silent office with vapor still rising from every breath, the room stripped bare to the walls, he suddenly felt old. A failure. Useless. A castoff. A burden. Today he would sign over what was left of his life to Matthew Dunson and Billy Weems, and then go home to a chill, silent house filled with faint memories of the sounds of three sons now gone, and a wife who had died three years before. He could see no light left in life, nor could he find a reason to live. He held his hands toward the fire, and did and said nothing as he waited.

  The opening of the door jarred him from his reveries, and he rose to face Matthew and Billy.

  Matthew spoke as he unbuttoned the top of his heavy coat. “Good morning, sir.”

  Covington’s expression did not change as he answered and gestured. “Good morning. Take a seat there at the desk.” He dragged his chair back and sat down facing them. He saw no reason to prolong the pain.

  “You brought the papers?”

  “Right here, sir,” Matthew said, and laid a folder on the desk between them.

  Without a word the old man opened the folder and for ten minutes studied the documents in silence. The bill of sale for six ships and the office, the assignment of all accounts receivable—all uncollectible and without value—the assumption by Dunson and Weems of the bank notes, the total and final release by Covington of all claims whatsoever against the firm, the unconditional agreement of the bank to release Covington and accept Dunson and Weems in his place—it was all there.

  He set the papers down and raised weary eyes as he leaned forward and interlaced his fingers. “There’s one thing that developed just over two weeks ago. I contracted to carry a shipment of coal from the North Branch of the Potomac down to the Anacostia River. Two hundred tons. I got a crew off the docks and sent them up there, aboard the Jessica. They loaded the coal and got back down as far as twelve miles below where the Shenandoah joins the Potomac, where the Jessica was stopped by authorities from both Maryland and Virginia. They’ve been battling for years over who owns the river, but never like this. Both claim the right to levy a tax on the coal for the privilege of moving it on the river, and neither one is going to release her until their tax is paid.”

  He shook his head, and forty-two years of dealing with import and export tax and tariff wars came boiling up. “One tax, maybe. But two? Two taxes on the same cargo because Maryland and Virginia both claim the river? Those fools are going to force a war between themselves.”

  He leaned back and remained silent for a moment while he cooled. “So far as these papers are concerned, I can sign the Jessica over to you, but I can’t do a thing about giving possession until the tax problem is handled. I have no idea how to go about that.”

  Billy leaned forward. “How much is the tax?”

  “Total between the two states, about one hundred ninety pounds sterling.”

  “If it’s not paid?”

  Covington thumped a stiff finger on his desk. “They’ll sell the cargo to pay it, and if they don’t get enough that way, they’ll sell the ship.”

  Matthew asked, “There’s no way to compromise? Negotiate?”

  Covington snorted. “Compromise? The two states are bringing cannon to face each other across the river.”

  Matthew straightened, alarmed. “Have you run into this before?”

  Covington’s teeth were on edge. “It’s happening all over, from Canada to Georgia—wherever a major river divides two states. The states are all bankrupt, or close to it. They’ve got to have revenue. Taxing river traffic is one way to do it, and neighboring states are fighting over who owns the rights.”

  He stopped and for a time sat still, looking at the documents. “I didn’t expect this to happen. If it makes a difference, I’ll understand. You don’t have to sign these papers.”

  Matthew turned to Billy. “What’s your feeling?”

  “It changes things.”

  “Enough to stop the transaction?”

  “Maybe. If we can’t pay the tax and lose the ship, we’ve reduced the total tonnage we can haul. And we have one less large asset if we have to sell out to pay the notes. It’s bound to make a difference, now or later.”

  Matthew thought for a moment. “Would our bank pay the double tax to keep this deal alive?”

  “Maybe. If it means the difference in making this thing work, or losing it altogether, they might do it.”

  Matthew heaved a sigh. “This whole transaction is a maybe. Do we go ahead?”

  For ten seconds Billy held his silence. “I think so.”

  Covington drew a quill and inkwell from his desk drawer. “I’m sorry about the Jessica. I didn’t mean to add that to your troubles. Shall I go ahead and sign?”

  Billy glanced at Matthew, and they both nodded.

  For ten minutes the three of them signed papers in duplicate, one set for each side. Finished, Covington shoved his hands into his coat pockets and settled back in his chair, eyes vacant, face blank as he struggled to know what he should do next. Forty-two years of his life, and all the responsibility of an international business, gone with the stroke of a quill. No place to go, nothing to do, no one at home, no one who cared if he lived or died. If he rose from the chair and walked out the door, where would he go? He cleared his throat to stop the trembling of his chin and drew his hand from his coat pocket to toss two big brass keys, clattering, onto the desk. Matthew and Billy each took one, studied it for a moment, then thrust it into a pocket.

  “About forgot to deliver the keys. They both fit both doors. They’re the only ones I know of.” He turned to point to several boxes stacked in a corner. “All the books are there. They’ll show you all the supply houses we’ve used for our food and ship needs—sails, chains, tools, paint, lamp oil—all of it. There’s also
a roster of all the officers and crewmen we’ve used over the past few years, but I don’t know where any of them are now. All scattered and gone, so far as I know. I don’t know of anything else I have here that will help you get started.”

  Matthew gathered the papers, divided them, pushed one set to Covington, and closed the others inside the folder. “Where do you want the desk and chairs delivered?”

  Covington shrugged. “Keep them. I’ve no use for them.”

  The finality of his words brought him to the bottom of despair. He licked at his lips, then wiped his mouth, lost, groping. His face was suddenly that of an old, discarded man with nothing left in life but to die. He slowly rose from his chair on legs that trembled, and walked to the door with Matthew and Billy watching. Matthew turned to Billy and for a moment a silent communication passed between them, and then Billy nodded once.

  Matthew called out, “Mr. Covington.” The words echoed against the bare walls.

  Covington took his hand from the door latch and turned, puzzled, waiting.

  Matthew gave him no time. “We’re going to need help. No one knows this business better than you. Would you consider being around to give us advice? We’ll carry the load, but we need someone with experience to keep us from making mistakes. Serious mistakes. Interested?”

  For a moment the old man straightened in disbelief. “Advice?”

  “We’ll move this old desk into a corner and you can watch and listen. You see us making a bad mistake, tell us. You won’t have to handle the day-to-day business. We’ll do that. We can’t pay unless this thing works. But if it does, you’ll get your fair share along with the rest of us.”