Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  Pettigrew’s voice came strong, choked with outrage and a growing sense of fear. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing back fifty yards to the sparse, square, frame office near the center of the cluster of buildings on the waterfront, from whence he had just come.

  “They’ve sent for the harbormaster and the taxing authority for this port. They’re trying to make us think they’re doing all they can to let us sail with the tide, but I doubt they intend letting us go until that additional tariff is paid.”

  A burly, bearded crewman asked, “When did that tariff become law?”

  Pettigrew snorted. “They’ve had a five percent export tariff on Virginia tobacco for four years. That’s not the problem. They’re telling me the State of Virginia added an extra three percent that became law four days ago when we were nearly loaded.”

  “Was the five percent paid?”

  “That was paid, half by the Scott company that sold the tobacco, and half by the Doernen company up north that bought it. But neither one of them knew about the three percent added tariff when they made their arrangements. They still don’t know.”

  “How long to go tell Doernen, or Scott?”

  “It’s not how long,” Pettigrew exclaimed, “it’s how do we do it? Walk? We can’t sail with the Rebecca, and I can’t find a ship leaving from here for New York within the next ten days. Scott’s sixty-seven miles up the James River.”

  Caleb asked, “How long before they can seize the cargo or the ship and sell them?”

  “Thirteen more days.”

  “How much is the added three percent?”

  “One hundred twelve pounds sterling.”

  “We don’t have it?”

  “We have less than half that much. It was never intended that we pay the tariff. That was between the buyer and the seller.”

  “Any chance Matthew and Billy know about this?”

  Pettigrew shook his head. “No chance at all.”

  Caleb’s face was white. “This will ruin their business.”

  “Ruin it before it gets started.”

  McKinrow’s thick Scottish brogue sounded from the back of the crew. “The tides and winds are with us tonight, and they won’t be again for days. What do we do? How do we get back up north?”

  Loud exclamations broke out from the crew, and Pettigrew raised his hand to silence them. “I don’t know yet. All we can do is—”

  Suddenly Caleb gestured. “Some men up at that office want you.”

  Pettigrew turned to look behind him and saw the small group of men gathered in front of the office, one of them motioning with his hand. He turned back to his crew and exclaimed, “Let’s go. I’ll do the talking.”

  They strode in a body, leaning into the wind, and Pettigrew stopped six feet from a thin-faced, balding man, shivering in a thin dress coat, squinting through spectacles. The man smiled, and his voice was high as he motioned and spoke.

  “Come inside. Too cold out here.”

  Pettigrew answered, “All of us?”

  “Up to you. You’ll have to stand.”

  The man stepped inside and held the door while the three men with him followed, then Pettigrew and his crew. The man closed the door and worked his way to the high counter that divided the room, swung the gate open, entered to his side, waited while his three joined him, then turned to face Pettigrew across the counter. The crew gathered behind Pettigrew, silent, eyes boring into the four men facing them.

  The thin-faced man pushed his spectacles back up his nose. “This office never was big enough. Sorry you have to stand.” He studied Pettigrew for a moment. “I take it you’re the captain of the Rebecca.”

  “Yes. Theodore Pettigrew. At your service.”

  The man nodded. “I’m Albert Jensen. Harbormaster. I understand there’s a problem with your ship.”

  Pettigrew’s voice was flat, cool. “Not the ship. We’re loaded with three hundred tons of Virginia tobacco, ready to sail with the tides. The five percent export tariff was paid, but I’m told there is an additional three percent that’s been assessed.”

  Jensen nodded and pursed his mouth and shook his head. “Yes. A real nuisance. Caught three or four merchant ships by surprise. We didn’t intend to have that happen, but that’s how the legislature handled it. Not much we can do. It’s the law.”

  Pettigrew’s voice was rising. “Isn’t there a requirement that notice be given before those kinds of tariffs become effective? Sixty days?”

  Jensen shook his head. “Not that I know of. We’ve always given notice before, but that was during normal times, and these times are anything but normal.” Jensen sighed. “But you’re talking to the wrong man. I’m harbor authority.” He gestured to the man next to him. “This is Peter Curtis. He handles tax and tariffs in this port. He’ll answer your questions.”

  Pettigrew turned to Curtis, average size, receding chin, bulbous nose. “Sir, we have urgent need to deliver three hundred tons of tobacco to a New York buyer. Our ship’s loaded. The only thing holding us here is lack of payment of the added three percent export tariff. We didn’t even know about it until three days ago. If we don’t sail with the tides, we could lose the buyers. It could cost the ship owners their company. What arrangements can we make to let us sail out tonight and pay later?”

  Curtis tossed his hands in the air helplessly and spoke with a noticeable lisp. “I wish there was a way, but the law doesn’t allow for it.”

  “Can I sign a note? A promissory note?”

  Curtis shook his head sadly. “What would we do if you didn’t pay? How would we collect it?”

  “I’ll stay here until it’s paid! My crew can sail the Rebecca to deliver the cargo.”

  Curtis’s smile was a mix of condescension and irritation. “And if no one returns to pay, what do we do? Throw you in debtors prison? That way everyone suffers.”

  Caleb saw the desperation growing in Pettigrew’s face and heard it in his voice as he spoke. “Let me call this the way I see it. These are hard times, and we’re here in this port, loaded with Virginia tobacco that has a buyer in New York. If we deliver it, my employer gains, Virginia gains, New York gains, and this crew gains. Your added three percent tariff became law four days ago, without notice to us or anyone else. I’ll return to pay it.”

  Curtis raised a hand to stop him, and Pettigrew paused.

  “I know all that, sir, and you must believe, I have sympathy. But what I don’t have is the power to do anything other than hold the ship until the tariff is paid.”

  Caleb saw Pettigrew’s chin begin to tremble with anger. “A sale that will put thousands of pounds British sterling into the stream of commerce, both here and up north, save my employer, feed these men and their families for weeks. All lost for lack of one hundred twelve pounds British sterling for a tax we didn’t know about. Is that what I’m hearing from you, sir?”

  Curtis drew a deep breath before he answered, and all sign of friendliness was gone. “No. I am bound by the law. My authority is limited to collecting the tax, and should it be necessary, to seize cargoes and ships that fail to pay. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Pettigrew’s voice rose. “Then who, sir, has authority above yours?”

  For a moment every man in the room stood in shocked silence, and Curtis’s face was drawn, angry when he answered. “The Virginia legislature. Go see them. Your case would be considered by them within the next six months, and resolved within a year. Until they speak, your ship remains here.”

  Pettigrew’s palm slapped down on the counter. Curtis jumped, and Pettigrew’s voice rang off the bare walls. “You intend selling her within the next thirteen days?”

  Curtis took one step back. “If that becomes necessary to collect the tax.” He turned to the two men behind him, gestured, and they trotted to the back door and out into the wind. Curtis turned back to Pettigrew.

  “Those men will return in about five minutes with militia. Armed. I have authority to arrest if it becomes necessary.”<
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  Pettigrew’s head thrust forward in disbelief. “Arrest! Who? Me?”

  “You’re very close to defying Virginia law.”

  Pettigrew gaped, and Caleb grasped his arm. “Come on, Captain. You’ll get nothing from these men. Let’s go.”

  Pettigrew seized Caleb’s hand and started to wrench it free, and then he caught himself and settled, and brought his rage under control. His anger was like a living thing as he stared into Curtis’s eyes, but he said nothing. He was still shaking as he turned about and made his way through his crew to open the door, and they followed him out onto the docks, into the chill wind, just as six uniformed Virginia militia came trotting from the west to line up against the wall on both sides of the door, muskets at the ready.

  Pettigrew turned to his men. “Come on.”

  He turned his back on the militia and walked away with his crew following. He could feel their weariness, and their rising fear that they were alone and unwanted in an unfriendly place, with no way to get out. They were becoming surly, and he was beginning to gauge how long they would take the abuse before they would fight back, even mutiny.

  He walked on toward the Rebecca and stopped before four Virginia militiamen who blocked the gangplank. The crew crowded around him, hands still in their pockets, the wind moving their long hair, tied behind their heads with leather strings in the manner of seamen.

  Pettigrew’s voice was controlled, steady. “We need to go aboard to get clothes and some food.”

  The lean, thin-faced corporal in charge looked at Pettigrew, then the thirteen men with him, and he wiped a nervous hand across his dry mouth. His voice cracked as he spoke. “Sorry, sir. Our orders are that no one boards this ship without written permission of Mr. Curtis.”

  Caleb watched the anger leap in Pettigrew’s eyes and moved one step closer, nearly touching his elbow, ready. Pettigrew’s voice was so quiet it was difficult to hear him in the wind.

  “You’re telling me I have to get permission from Curtis to board my own ship for clothing and food for these men?”

  “Yes, sir. You do.”

  Movement and murmuring broke out in the crew, and Pettigrew turned to them. “Back away from here and wait for me. Whatever happens, stay away from the ship. Am I clear?”

  Reluctant mumbles of “Aye, sir,” came from among them, but one thing was clear. They were very near open rebellion as Pettigrew strode back to the office of Peter Curtis. Caleb gave a head gesture, and the crew followed him to gather ten yards away from the ship, where they stood in the wind and chill sun, looking first at the four militiamen clustered at the gangplank, then at the office, talking quietly among themselves while they waited for Pettigrew to return. Five minutes became ten, then fifteen, before the office door opened, and they watched their captain walk out and turn directly toward them. He came striding, mouth clenched shut, and they knew before he reached them that Curtis had denied his request. Behind Pettigrew, Curtis stood in the doorway for a moment, then gave orders and pointed, and the six militiamen standing at the office door fell into a loose file and followed Pettigrew, muskets grasped before them in both hands. Pettigrew reached the crew, and the six militiamen marched on past to join the other four at the gangplank of the rocking ship.

  Every man in the crew had seen battle in the war, and each was making instant calculations of whether they could cover the thirty feet between them and the ten muskets before the men holding them could cock them, bring them to bear, and fire. It would be close. Pettigrew read it perfectly and stepped out to assert himself.

  “It isn’t worth blood. Come on with me.”

  They walked west, past the office, with Curtis and the three men inside staring at them through the windows, and they stopped on the wharf with the gulls squawking and disputing over dead fish and refuse in the river and on the banks, and the wind murmuring in the masts and ropes of the ships tied nearby. The crew gathered around Pettigrew.

  “Curtis will not give permission. He says the law is clear—the crew cannot go aboard a seized ship until the tax is paid. We can’t pay the tax. I have fifty-two British pounds in gold in a money belt around my middle. That was for necessaries for our haul north. We could use it to buy passage home, but I can’t find a ship moving north for about ten days. So the question is, what do we do about it?”

  Loud talk erupted. For more than a minute Pettigrew watched and listened, gauging the temper of his men. Caleb stood nearby, saying nothing, thoughts running, and then he turned to Pettigrew.

  “Let’s go down to the Blue Dolphin. Get something hot to eat. Talk.”

  Pettigrew nodded, and he and Caleb led the way farther west to the weatherworn, unpainted tavern near the end of the waterfront. The clutch of men entered the dingy room, waited a moment for their eyes to adjust, glanced at the six men with mugs in their hands seated alone at six separate tables, then walked to the plain, blocky, harried, lipless woman standing behind a wide plank lying atop two barrels. She looked at the fourteen men, then spoke to Pettigrew.

  “We don’t have beds for this many.”

  “We’re not here for lodging. Do you have hot food? Ham? A leg of mutton?”

  “Stew. We have stew for this many. It’ll take a few minutes.”

  “Do you have a room we can use?”

  She pointed. “There.”

  “Something hot to drink while we’re waiting.”

  “Rum? Cider?” she said.

  Pettigrew nodded. “Hot pitchers of each.”

  “Pay in advance.”

  He laid money on the plank, she made change, and he led his crew to the plain, bare-walled room with air tainted by the sour smell of stale rum and salt sea air. A long, scarred, wooden table was in the center of the room, with benches down two sides, chairs at each end; a smoky fire burned in the fireplace along one wall. They closed the door, and the men took their places on the side benches, with Pettigrew on the chair at one end, Caleb on the chair at the other.

  It took the perspiring woman three trips to set four large pewter pitchers of steaming cider and buttered rum on the table, with fourteen battered pewter mugs. The men poured, steam rose, the men gingerly sipped, then turned toward their captain, waiting.

  Pettigrew set his mug down. “I can’t find a way to get us out of here in less than ten days. I have about forty-eight pounds British sterling after paying for this meal, and at the end of thirteen days I doubt I’ll have much money left if we have to pay for lodging and food. If any of you have something to say, now’s the time.”

  The men stared at each other for a time before talk began. For ten minutes it ran on with Pettigrew listening, waiting for any plan that gave a glimmer of hope, and there was none. The blocky woman brought in two black kettles of steaming mutton and vegetable stew with fourteen pewter bowls and spoons, four large loaves of brown uncut bread that was burned on the bottom, set it all on the table, and walked back out without a word. The men filled their bowls, broke the bread, and scooped the first load of stew into their mouths, sucking air against the heat. For a time the only sound at the table was the click of pewter spoons on pewter bowls, and weary, angry, cold, hungry men working on hot stew and bread.

  They were starting to fill their bowls for the second time when Caleb put his spoon down and raised his head to speak. There was a quality in his voice that stopped every man and brought all eyes to bear on him.

  “Captain, has Congress passed any laws controlling all American harbors?”

  Pettigrew shook his head. “None that I know of. Why?”

  “Are the laws of Virginia harbors like the ones in Massachusetts?”

  “Some, not all.”

  “What happens if two states have laws that are different, and the difference starts trouble?”

  The entire crew was silent, tracking, while Pettigrew thought. “You mean if a ship from one state breaks the law of the harbor of another state?”

  “Yes.”

  Pettigrew set his fork down. “I think the law wh
ere the offense happened would control.”

  “But what if the ship that offended was gone? Back to its home port?”

  Pettigrew leaned back in his chair, staring at Caleb, mind working. “I don’t know. I doubt one state has the right to go into the harbor of another and seize a ship. Or make any arrest. At least without the consent of the home harbor.”

  “And if the home harbor says no?”

  “I think that would be the end of it.”

  Caleb nodded. “That’s what I thought. If it’s true, then I think we have a decision to make.”

  Pettigrew’s eyes widened, and he suddenly straightened, then leaned forward, tapping his forefinger on the table. Murmuring broke out among the crew as their thoughts caught up with Pettigrew’s.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “What are you suggesting?”

  All heads turned to Caleb, and the only sound was the wind drawing at the chimney.

  Caleb’s voice was steady and even. “We sail the Rebecca out of here tonight.”

  Pettigrew started, and his voice came hot and high. “While she’s under seizure of a Virginia tariff law?”

  “Yes.”

  “What of those ten militiamen? Kill them?”