by Ron Carter
Two hundred yards distant, across the clearing, came a rider mounted on a brown gelding, with a long rifle balanced on the pommel of his saddle. He wore buckskins and moccasins and a full beard, and it was clear he had seen Ben and Eli. The lone rider was followed by a sleigh, drawn by a laboring bay mare. Seated in the sleigh was a man wearing a tall beaver hat and a beaver-skin coat. He was handling the reins with both hands, awkward, rough. There was lather gathered about the mouth of the horse where the bit had worked, and the horse had its neck arched, throwing its head, fighting the pressure.
Ben’s head dropped forward in astonishment. “What in the name of heaven . . .”
Eli shifted his rifle enough to slip his finger inside the trigger guard and lock his thumb around the hammer, and the two men waited. When the rider was twenty yards away, Eli drew his hand from the trigger guard and hammer, and raised it to the square to show he held no weapon, and the man on the horse did the same. The strange procession came on, to stop ten feet from Ben and Eli, and it was Ben who spoke while Eli peered past the men, probing the forest behind them for any movement he did not understand.
“You have come some distance,” Ben said. “Do you need water and feed for your animals? Food for yourselves?”
The rider answered. “We would appreciate it. We are looking for a man.”
“Could I know his name?”
“Eli Stroud.”
Ben started, then quickly settled. “You have business with him?”
“We do.”
“Your names?”
“I’m Carlyle Stringham.” The man turned and gestured toward the mud-splattered sleigh. The runners, built for snow, were battered and bruised from too many rocks and stones in the melting snow. “This is Randall Weatherby.”
Ben considered. “I’m Ben Fielding. This farm is mine. This man is Eli Stroud. You’re welcome to step down and come into the house. There is water and hay in the barn for your animals.”
Twenty minutes later the men made their way from the barn to the house, where Lydia met them at the door with the children standing behind her, shy, wide-eyed in wonder at a fair-sized, bearded man carrying a rifle like Eli’s, followed by a sparse, smaller man, sweating, wearing a hat that resembled a stovepipe and a coat that made him look like a grizzly bear fresh out of winter hibernation. He apparently did not have the presence of mind to take it off in the warmth of the Chinook and the sun. The men cleaned the mud from their feet, then walked into the log home.
Ben gestured. “This is my wife, Lydia, and these are our children. Lydia, this is Mr. Stringham and Mr. Weatherby. They have business with Eli.”
Lydia bowed. “May I get some cider?”
“That would be good,” Ben said, and Lydia spoke to Hannah, who hurried out the door for the root cellar.
“May I take your hat and coat?” Ben asked, and hung them on the pegs beside the door. Eli leaned his rifle, with that of Stringham’s, against the wall by the front door, and waited. Hannah burst through the door with a large pewter pitcher clutched between her hands and set it on the cupboard while Lydia brought cups to the table, followed by the pitcher of sweet cider. She gave Hannah a silent signal, and they moved the children away from the table as the men sat down. Weatherby held a thick leather folder in his hand, and did not place it on the table as he picked up his cider. He drank, then turned to Lydia.
“Ma’am, that was good. Very good.”
Lydia smiled and nodded but said nothing.
Weatherby turned back to Eli. “I have to explain. I’ve come from New York where we wear those hats and coats.” He gestured toward them, hanging beside the door. “I thought I would be traveling through deep snow up in these north woods, so I came in that sleigh. I didn’t expect this warm wind and sun. And I don’t know much about handling a horse.”
He paused, drank once more, and continued. “I got halfway here, and got lost, so I hired Mr. Stringham as a guide. He’s the one that got us through.”
Eli’s estimate of Mr. Weatherby took a long step upward at the honesty.
Weatherby went on. “You’re wondering what brought me here.” He laid the leather folder on the table and opened the cover. “I’m a barrister. An attorney. From New York City. Lawrence Weatherby is my father. He’s had his law office on Wall Street in New York for over fifty years. Years ago, my father was attorney for Rufus Broadhead. Mr. Broadhead was the father of Mary Broadhead. Mary Broadhead married into the Flint family, and her husband lost his life in what was called an accident.”
He stopped to look at the first document in the folder. “This is a copy of the marriage certificate between her and Mr. Flint.”
Ben looked at Eli, who was staring at Mr. Weatherby.
Weatherby continued in his matter-of-fact monotone. “Both the Broadhead family and the Flint family lost their entire fortunes. Mary Flint was forced into service as a nurse in a British hospital in New York. The doctor in charge was a Colonel Otis Purcell of the British army. Otis Purcell took a very proper, very paternal view of Mary, and while he was dying from a stroke, wrote a brief statement, which meets the requirements of a will. He left his worldly possessions to Mary Flint.” He picked up the second document. “This is a copy of that will.” He picked up the third document. “At the time of Purcell’s death, a British general named Jeremy Hollins was the party who discovered the body of Doctor Purcell, with the will still in his hand, and General Hollins generously drafted an affidavit stating what he had found, and where he found it, and alleging he believed it to be the last will and testament of Otis Purcell. He gave that document to Mary Flint.”
Weatherby drew a deep breath and droned on. “Based on the will and the affidavit, Mary tried to get some of the money that belonged to Otis Purcell. It was being held in the London–New York Bank, Ltd., in New York City. The British government intervened, and their courts in England issued a hold order on those funds, partly because a distant cousin of Otis Purcell, a man named Alfonso Eddington, filed a claim in a court in London, for all property of the deceased Otis Purcell. Mary came to my father with the issue. He advised her to get him copies of the will and the affidavit of General Hollins. He also advised her that in his opinion, it would be extremely difficult for her to perfect her claim in an American court, since the money had been the property of a British officer, and the conflicting claim was being made by a British subject. That all occurred about six years ago, when the war was in progress and the Americans were far from winning. Mary Flint delivered the two documents my father asked for, and then she disappeared.”
Weatherby stopped and reached for the cider pitcher. “May I?”
Ben nodded, Weatherby poured, drank, set the cup on the table, wiped at his mouth, then went on.
“Father filed a case for Mary Flint in a New York state court. That court issued an order against the bank, instructing them to hold the contested money right there in New York until the conflicting claims of Eddington and Mary Flint could be resolved.” Weatherby laughed, a sudden, sharp burst. “That New York bank didn’t know what to do. One order from the British court, and another from the American court, in direct conflict. So they just sealed the account and waited.”
For the first time Weatherby paused long enough to look into the faces of everyone at the table, including Stringham’s, who was mesmerized.
“Am I going too fast?”
Eli shook his head. “Go on.”
Weatherby shrugged. “In 1781 the war ended. In 1782, Eddington died, and the British signed a peace treaty with us. Last year about this time, Father petitioned the American court in New York for an order declaring the money in the account to be that of Mary Flint, based on the written documents of Purcell and Hollins.”
He tossed his hands up to let them drop thumping on the table. “Eddington was dead. There were no British courts left in New York. There was no one to contest it! The New York court signed the order. The money became the property of Mary Flint. The question was, where was Mary Flint
? Father asked me to find her.”
He began referring to notes and documents in the folder. “The path led to Morristown, where she worked as a nurse under the direction of a Doctor Albigence Waldo. I found an entry in the records of the American camp there that Major Waldo had performed a marriage ceremony on July 6, 1778, joining Mary Flint to Eli Stroud. It took some time, and if I say so myself, some expert detective work to find out where I could locate Eli Stroud. That investigation led me here.”
He stopped and stared at Eli.
“Are you the husband of Mary Flint?”
“I am.”
“May I talk with her?”
“She died four years ago.”
Weatherby recoiled as though he had been struck. “Oh! Oh! I didn’t know. I am sorry, sir. So very sorry.”
Eli nodded. “I understand. No need.”
Weatherby pursed his mouth in thought. “If she has passed on, you may need a second affidavit from someone who witnessed the marriage. Is there such a person that you can find now, four years later?”
“Yes. Billy Weems. A lieutenant in the Continental Army. He gave her in marriage at the ceremony. He lives in Boston.”
“Excellent. Are you certain he’ll cooperate? Sign an affidavit?”
“He will.”
“Then, as her lawfully wedded husband, you inherited all her property at the time of her passing. The money in the New York bank is yours, sir, if you can give evidence from some third party of her passing.”
Eli glanced at Ben, then back at Weatherby, but said nothing.
Weatherby continued. “Where did she pass on?”
“Here. In this house.”
“Where is she interred? Buried?”
“Outside. In the family burial ground.”
“Is there a record of her passing on? Anyone outside the family who might know?”
“Yes. She died giving birth to our daughter, Laura. Laura is over there.”
Weatherby turned to look at Laura, standing next to Lydia, and Eli saw the pain in Weatherby’s face as he murmured, “Beautiful child.” He turned back to Eli.
“Who outside the family might have been here?”
“Parthena Poors. A neighbor. Parthena midwifed at the birth.”
Weatherby leaned forward, focused, intense. “Do you know if she kept a record of the passing of Mary and the birth of Laura?”
“Yes. She did.”
Relief flooded through Weatherby. “Could you get a handwritten statement to that effect?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“Good! Excellent! Get it in writing. Then, sir, you will have to bring the document to New York City, along with the affidavit of Mr. Weems concerning your marriage. The Weatherby law office is on Wall Street. Find us. I will represent you in court, to have the money turned over to you. It’s rightfully yours.”
Lydia had her hand over her mouth, eyes wide in shock. Ben eased back in his chair, face a blank.
Eli stared at his cider cup for a few seconds, then raised his eyes to Weatherby.
“How much money?”
Weatherby picked the next document from the folder. “Here’s the accounting. Otis Purcell left thirty-two thousand, three hundred, twelve pounds British sterling to Mary Flint.”
Lydia gasped, Ben stiffened, mouth open, Stringham jerked erect, and Eli laid his hand flat on the table. Weatherby’s face sobered.
“However, there have been expenses, costs, and fees. We received no money from Mary when she retained my father, because she had none, so the law firm has advanced all that was needed. Father had to appear in the British court one time—London—and I have had over five years of periodic work on this case. There have been court appearances—oh, it’s all here. Let me give you the amount that remains after all costs and fees.”
He turned to the fifth page of the accounting, ran his finger to the last line, and read.
“You, sir, have twenty-eight thousand, nine hundred, eighty-eight pounds British sterling in the London–New York Bank, which becomes yours upon delivering proof of your marriage to Mary Flint, and her passing. And I recommend heartily that you waste no time claiming it, because there is no telling how long the London–New York Bank will remain solvent, since it is essentially a London-based institution.”
Eli asked, “Are they still in business?”
“Oh, yes. I don’t want to alarm you. Your money is there, and it is safe for a time. But with the direction this country is moving, I’d suggest you not delay. I’m leaving a copy of the accounting with you. Should you disagree with any of it, make notes. We’ll discuss it when you come to my office in New York.”
Weatherby stopped, straightened his documents, and drew out a thick packet closed with string. “There is a duplicate of each of the documents in this file.” I leave it with you.” He closed his folder and sat back. “Well, I believe that concludes the business that brought me here, sir.”
Eli looked at the heavy packet, then picked up the copy of the accounting document and glanced at it. “One thing. Why did your father and you do all this? Put up all that money without knowing you’d ever get it back?”
Weatherby reached to scratch his head. “Father never said. I think it was because he was too old to join in the war, and this was one opportunity to sting the British. It wasn’t much of a sting, but I think it made Father feel good. It did me.”
Eli looked at Ben, then back at Weatherby. “I’ll be at your office soon. I’ll get Billy to sign a paper that he was witness to the marriage, and get a writing from Parthena Poors that she was here when Laura was born and Mary died. She’s the midwife for anyone within about seventy miles of here.”
“Good.”
“How do I repay you, Mr. Weatherby?”
“When you get the money from the bank. My billing is in your hand.”
“I owe you more than that.”
“No, you don’t. I got everything you owed me when the New York American court issued that order impounding the money, and I served it on the British barrister who represented that man Eddington. The expression on that barrister’s face—” Weatherby stopped to smile, then chuckle. “No, sir, I got most of my pay that day. You don’t owe me.”
Weatherby sighed and stood. “Well, there’s no reason to take more of your day. I can cover quite a distance before dark if Mr. Stringham will be good enough to guide me back. I feel sorry for that horse out there, the one that pulls the sleigh. New York barristers don’t get much training in driving sleighs in the Vermont forest, especially when the snow’s nearly all melted. Hard on the horse. I feel bad about that.”
The others stood, and Lydia spoke. “You’ll stay for the midday meal, won’t you?”
Weatherby turned to her and bowed. “Ma’am, after tasting that cider, you can believe I would if I could. But I need to be on my way. I thank you for your courtesy.”
Lydia was not to be denied. “Can I send some food with you? We have some smoked venison ham in the root cellar. And some cheese. Cider. I have bread.”
Stringham cleared his throat and wiped at his mouth, and Weatherby looked at him, and turned back to Lydia.
“I think that would be nice. Yes. That would be good.”
Thirty minutes later they all gathered near the barn, where the mare stood nervously between the shafts of the sleigh, and Stringham held the bridle of his saddled gelding. Weatherby attempted to struggle into his coat, then gave up the effort, and tossed it into the sleigh seat, with his hat, next to a large sack of food Lydia had prepared.
“That coat belongs in New York, not here,” he said as he climbed into the sleigh and took up the reins.
He paused for a moment. “I’ll expect you soon in New York, Mr. Stroud. Mrs. Fielding, my thanks to you for your hospitality. If ever any of the rest of you come to New York, find my office. I would enjoy showing you where I live.”
He turned back to Stringham. “Sir, shall we go?”
Stringham set the butt of his rifle on his t
high, reined his horse around, and raised it to a trot while Weatherby clucked and slapped the reins on the mare, and she lunged to jerk the sled south through the clearing.
The family stood rooted to watch them disappear beyond the tree line, then turned to walk back to the house. They cleaned their feet on the doorstep before they entered, and inside, Eli walked to the table to pick up the accounting document.
He looked at Lydia, then Ben. “Twenty-eight thousand pounds, British sterling. A lot of money. Enough to ruin a man. Is it too much, Ben? Lydia? Think on it.”
Notes
The name of the highest god in the Iroquois religion is Taronhiawagon, which means “the holder of the heavens” or “he who carries the heavens on his shoulders” (Hale, The Iroquois Book of Rites, p. 74).
For the circumstances surrounding Colonel Otis Purcell, his will granting his fortune to Mary Flint, General Jeremy Hollins, and Alfonso Eddington, see volume 3 of this series, To Decide Our Destiny, chapter 14, page 372.
For the incident involving Lawrence Weatherby, the New York barrister, and Rufus Broadhead, father of Mary Flint, see volume 4 of this series, The Hand of Providence, chapter 8, page 156.
For the marriage of Mary Flint and Eli Stroud, see volume 5 of this series, A Cold, Bleak Hill, chapter 33, page 550.
For the passing of Mary Flint, the birth of her daughter Laura, and the role played by the midwife Parthena Poors and her husband, Abijah, see volume 6 of this series, The World Turned Upside Down, chapter 21, page 314.
Jamestown, Virginia
Mid-March 1784
CHAPTER XXV
* * *
Captain Theodore Pettigrew came to a stop, pulled his tricorn low against the raw, westerly March wind ruffling the dark waters of the north shores of the James River, thrust his hands in his coat pockets, and faced his crew on the waterfront of the small village of Jamestown, Virginia, some thirty miles west of where the river empties into the great Chesapeake Bay. They stood in the chill, late morning sun with their shoulders hunched and their backs to the wind, heads turned to hear him above the sounds of the wind singing in the ropes and masts and spars of the deep water ships anchored in the small harbor and tied to the wharves. Fifteen feet to their right, the Rebecca rode low in the waters of high tide, loaded with three hundred tons of prime Virginia tobacco. She was tied tight against the dock by four, two-inch hawsers, and she was rising and falling slightly with the swells to grind against the heavy timbers of the pier. The bow of the ship pointed east, downriver, and there was one ship tied to the dock ahead of her. A squad of four armed, uniformed Virginia militia stood beside the gangplank, facing the wind with their muskets clutched in cold hands as they watched the crew.