Sparrowhawk III

by Edward Cline

  “Nevertheless, the market for it has been reduced, and there is no allowance in this business for child-like fancies.” Hugh glanced at Otis Talbot, and in this glance was the suggestion that since Mr. Stannard was attempting to defend Swart on the matter, he must have an interest in ensuring that Swart continued to grow such an unprofitable crop. Hugh reined his mount around and walked it in a wide circuit through the bare stalks, then rode back to his companions. “He puts his hills too close together,” he said. “Neighboring hills must starve each other for the same soil and water.” He pointed vaguely to a spot. “Some over there are no more than two feet apart from any side. Most seem to be three. It is no wonder to me that his leaf is mediocre, as you say, Mr. Stannard. You were correct in your remark that he is attempting to compensate with bulk. How many hills would you say are here, sir?”

  “About one hundred thousand, sir.” Stannard paused. “That’s as Mr. Swart told me.”

  Hugh waved a hand at the field. “He could not have had more than four good leaves per stalk, when he ought to have had eight. Allowing for spoilage and negligence, this season should produce for him some ten hogsheads — of which Mr. Ivy would likely condemn three or four.” He shook his head. “Altogether, a rather pitiful reward for so vast an enterprise.”

  The agent sighed in concession. “I could not agree with you more, sir.”

  “Well, let us see what condition his barns are in.” Hugh turned around and rode on.

  Stannard looked at Talbot, who wore a faint grin. The Philadelphia merchant remarked, “My friend labored for a while in the field of a customer of mine, in Pennsylvania,” he said.

  “I see,” said the agent. “But — why?”

  “He called it catharsis.” Talbot said nothing more, and urged his mount to follow his companion. Stannard sat for a moment, not knowing what to think. On one hand, he was pleased that the young man was as critical of the property as he himself was; on the other, he was worried that Mr. Kenrick might conclude that the property was in too abominable a condition to purchase.

  Hugh had few kind things to say about the rest of the plantation. He ventured no appraisal of the staff, servants, or slaves. He inspected the yard that contained the smithy, cooperage, and woodworks, and watched with apparent admiration two slaves in the smithy repair a plow.

  When they passed through the slave quarter, Hugh asked, “How many slaves did you say there were, Mr. Stannard?”

  “Thirty, Mr. Kenrick,” answered the agent. “Twenty-one hardy males, five females, four children, and three superannuated females who mostly tend the slaves’ gardens and perform minor chores in the kitchen. Those three are counted as one.”

  Without looking at the agent, Hugh remarked, “Do not speak of them as though they were sows, sir.”

  Stannard frowned in genuine perplexity. “It is the custom, sir,” he said. “They are property, and how else ought one to speak of them?”

  Hugh, in reply, merely gave him a brief, withering glance, and rode on.

  Stannard followed, and hastily added, in an attempt to allay the young man’s displeasure, “That fellow in the smithy, sir, is likely the best ironmaster in these parts. And the cooper’s apprentice owns the distinction that none of his hogsheads has ever broken, even for the most brutish handling. Even Mr. Ivy has expressed his admiration. The fellow is on occasion sent to other plantations to instruct other apprentices.” He paused, unsure that Hugh was listening. “Some of these fellows are paid a shilling or two a month, in addition to being allowed some discretion in the tending of their own gardens. They are permitted to keep whatever they are paid for the things they raise in them and sell — though more often than not what they sell is mixed with edibles taken from Mr. Swart’s and other planters’ gardens. They are allowed time to stand at crossroads and at the bridge over Hove Creek, and accost travelers.”

  Hugh said nothing more until they reached the main house. There they were taken on a tour of it and its outbuildings by Mr. Beecroft, a stocky, nervous, abrupt man who wore bifocals.

  The party was served a light dinner and ale in the supper room. When the servant left the room, Hugh remarked, “The staff look competent — and hopeful, Mr. Stannard. It is curious, though, that they have remained in Mr. Swart’s service. They did not say so, but it is my impression that Mr. Swart commands little affection from them.”

  Stannard said, “That is because they are, strictly speaking, no longer in his employ, but his creditors’. No doubt,” he added in a lower voice, “they have stayed on to avail themselves of what they may and because there are no opportunities elsewhere. Mr. Beecroft is answerable for their conduct.”

  “Of course.” Hugh said, “The books in the library have not been touched in years. There is an inch coating of dust on their tops.”

  Talbot chuckled. “Obviously, Mr. Swart limits his reading to tobacco notes and legal papers.”

  “True,” said Stannard. “Why, I seem to recollect there being more books on the shelves in that room. Mr. Beecroft some time ago informed me that Mr. Swart will occasionally use the leaves of books to kindle his fires. I did not credit the information then, but now….” The agent shook his head.

  “This house, too, is in disgraceful condition,” Hugh said, “though it is in sound enough shape.”

  “But a few more years of Mr. Swart’s management,” added Talbot, “and the property would look abandoned and invaded by rummagers.”

  “It can be salvaged, but at some cost,” said Hugh. He finished his ale, then put down the glass and sat back in his chair. “I am aware of the rivalry between you factors, Mr. Stannard. That is, between you and Mr. McRae. It is unusual to see you two as allies in this business.”

  “If the truth be known, sir,” said the agent, “Mr. Swart’s delinquent accounts are near to breaking both our firms. But, once this business has been settled, we will be in good stead again and will resume our friendly animosity.”

  “You are quite candid, sir. Presumably you also have a store in town.”

  “Yes,” said Stannard. “Right on Queen Anne, nearly across from Mr. McRae’s.” The agent paused. “We serve different clientele. Mr. McRae’s is the larger, for he has a sitting stock of necessities and toys that the middling planters require. I, too, maintain a stock, but it is somewhat smaller. Some time ago I decided to reduce the cost of keeping such an inventory, and introduced the novel idea of putting together catalogues for things people here seem to favor. My catalogues contain fine drawings of most of these items, together with their manufacturers’ names and their costs. The drawings are borrowed from pattern books or are supplied by the manufacturers themselves. This method allows me to offer the same goods to my patrons as those carried by Mr. McRae, but at a lower bill to me.”

  “I commend you for the innovation,” Hugh said. “Do your patrons receive what they see in your books?”

  “Invariably,” answered Stannard with a smile. “Allowing for breakage and misfortunes at sea, of course.” Encouraged by the compliment, he went on. “You know, once my firm got all the Brougham leaf. But it is now Mr. McRae who purchases most of that crop. His company in Glasgow disposes of it somehow. It was the practice of the growers here to merely consign their tobacco to one or another firm in London, or Liverpool. But then the Scots entered the trade, and my firm sent me out about nine years ago to win back what we were losing from this county to Mr. McRae’s firm. This object I have accomplished, while Mr. McRae has retained most of the smaller planters. He is welcome to them.”

  Hugh looked thoughtful. “You imply that you purchase these crops, Mr. Stannard,” he said, “when in fact the hogsheads remain the property of the planter until they are sold in London. Your firm, Umphlett and Weddle, warehouses them there, but pays neither that cost, nor the freight, nor the demurrage, nor other extraordinary costs. All that is charged to the planter’s account, and deducted from the amount of sale. Of course, there is your firm’s commission on the sale, also deducted from the sale pri
ce. The only advantage to the planter is the drawback arrangement, when the duties imposed on imported tobacco are charged to the planter’s account, but nullified if the tobacco is re-exported to the Continent. On none but British vessels, of course.”

  Stannard imagined he detected a note of hostility in the young man’s words, and did not understand it. “In many instances, sir,” he said, “that is true. But, more and more, firms such as my own are purchasing tobacco directly from the planters, instead of merely agreeing to have it conveyed to London. Often, the firms assume many of the costs you have just cited. The trade has grown very sharp in recent years.” He smiled. “As you must know, most of the tobacco entering London or any of the outports such as Glasgow or Liverpool, whatever its destination, is kept in Customs warehouses. Umphlett and Weddle, I am proud to say, is among a group of firms now campaigning in Parliament for a law that would allow our firm to billet their purchased and custodial tobacco in their own warehouses.”

  Hugh hummed noncommittally. “They might also campaign to resolve the stoppage in the Pool of London, Mr. Stannard. I spent enough time there with my father’s agent to observe that if there is any profit to be made on the goods stowed in all the idle merchantmen there, an unconscionable portion of it is consumed by demurrage and pilferage.”

  Stannard could only concede this point. He essayed a change of subject to describe some of the vast plantations in the region, such as Nomini Hall and Westover, then proposed that they continue the inspection. The three men strode out to the lawn with its river view. The agent pointed downriver to the pier of Brougham Hall, where they could see several slaves and servants struggling in the water to load a hogshead onto one of three barges tied to the pier. Three more hogsheads sat on the sandy bank, and as they watched a fourth suddenly appeared, deftly guided by two slaves. Stannard explained that the one-ton barrels were brought from the storage barn a quarter mile away to a “rolling road” that led down the wooded slope to the riverbank and pier. “Some of these Negroes handle those ’heads as though they were mere dice,” he remarked.

  The party remounted and inspected the western side of the plantation. Here, in fallow fields, grazed sheep and the brown long-horned cattle Hugh knew so well in Danvers. Beyond and south of the fields was forest, and to the west a thick line of trees behind a worm fence that ran for almost the entire length of the property. The agent said, “When the Broughams and Massies were neighbors, there was no fence. The fence is of Mr. Frake’s construction. It was one of the first things he put up when he inherited the place.” Stannard spoke with a faint tone of disapproval.

  “Perhaps this fence is a reflection on Mr. Swart, sir, not on Mr. Frake,” Hugh said. “In what condition is Morland?”

  “Most enviable, sir. It is not a large holding, compared with some. But it is most rationally managed and seems to be prosperous. Mr. Frake employs some novel methods of cultivation.” The agent added, with a resentment that verged on peevishness, “He does not give me his custom.”

  “Perhaps he has found other, more agreeable arrangements,” remarked Hugh.

  “I don’t doubt that, sir,” Stannard said. “They are not with Mr. McRae, either. Mr. Ivy tells me that all of his leaf is carried out by a single merchantman, the Sparrowhawk, or by one of its owner’s acquaintance. I have not been able to determine what firm back home takes custody of it, nor who is the ultimate purchaser of it.”

  Hugh turned in his saddle and blessed Stannard with one of his rare smiles, and did not comment. Stannard, for his part, tentatively smiled in return, but was not certain why. It occurred to him later, when he was no longer in the young man’s company, that Mr. Kenrick was up to some kind of mischief, and that his smile was a point of secret knowledge.

  When the party returned to the ground on the eastern side of the plantation, Hugh took out his pocket watch. “It is nigh four of the clock, Mr. Stannard. Have we seen all that needs to be seen?”

  “Yes, sir. Shall we return to town, or would you like to see the house again?”

  “That won’t be necessary, sir,” Talbot said. “If we are to attend a ball this evening, Mr. Kenrick and I would like to return to our room to talk among ourselves, freshen up, and prepare for the festivities.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Stannard. He leaned forward in his saddle hopefully. “Well…what do you think?” His glance moved between his two guests.

  Hugh said, “We will have a decision for you and Mr. McRae in the morning.” He waved his ledger book once and dropped it into a saddlebag. “There is much that Mr. Talbot and I must discuss.”

  The road to the eastern flank of Brougham Hall led through some freehold farms. As they rode by, Stannard nodded or doffed his hat to men he knew who were working in the fields.

  Hugh asked, “What requirements must a man meet to be appointed a tobacco inspector by the government here, Mr. Stannard?”

  The agent shrugged. “That he be an honest man, and able to judge good leaf from bad.”

  “How does a man acquire such knowledge, except by staining his hands in the care and worming of his own leaf?”

  “By having been a good planter, sir, though the victim of some misfortune.”

  “Is Mr. Ivy such a person?”

  “No. Mr. Ivy is a distant relation of Mr. Cullis’s wife. Her cousin, I believe. He was overseer for one of Mr. Cullis’s places on the James. When Mr. Cullis sold that place some years ago, he nominated Mr. Ivy to succeed old Mr. St. John, who was ailing at the time.”

  “I see.”

  Twenty-five minutes later the party was back on Queen Anne Street. When his guests dismounted and stood on the porch of the boarding house, Stannard took the reins of their mounts. “I shall ask Mr. Gramatan’s stable to reserve these mounts for you, sirs,” he said, “and I will call on you here with my wife and son near six-thirty.”

  “We will be ready, Mr. Stannard,” Talbot said. “Thank you for your time. We look forward to the celebration this evening.”

  “The Amelia will depart on her return voyage tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Stannard,” Hugh said. “If we decide in your favor, Mr. Talbot and I would like to be on it, but only after some business has been settled.”

  “Of course,” said the agent. “It will be a bit parky out of doors this evening, but I believe the company will keep us warm. Until later, sirs.” Stannard tipped his hat, then rode back up the street with the two mounts in tow.

  A while later, in their room, while Talbot shaved himself, Hugh reviewed his notes in the ledger book. He frowned briefly, and remarked, “It is something of a paradox, Mr. Talbot, but I had the impression that Mr. Stannard is quite content to be a creditor, though that status jeopardizes his business.” He turned to face his friend and mentor. “Had you that impression, too?”

  “Yes,” answered the man, wiping his face off with a towel. “But it is no paradox at all. His status as a creditor gives him a dollop of power.”

  Hugh turned this reply over in his mind for a moment, then resumed his studies.

  Talbot studied the back of his protégé. “What would you call the place, Mr. Kenrick?” he asked. “New Danvers, perhaps? Or, Effney Hall — in honor of your mother? She would be so pleased. Or, simply Kenrick?”

  Hugh looked up again. “I had not given the matter thought, Mr. Talbot,” he said. “No, none of those,” he added, shaking his head. “I am certain, though, that I should not continue to call it Brougham Hall. It must be a name of my own choosing…something that would distinguish it from anything in my past….”

  Chapter 4: The Ball

  The seat of Enderly was a residence not quite twice the size of Brougham Hall, but large enough that its enclosing wings, connected to the main house by roofed colonnades, formed a spacious brick courtyard. In the center of the courtyard stood a mature red cedar encircled by crocuses, hollyhocks, and lilacs. Instead of a wall and an arched gate to complete the square, there were two stands of tulip trees, through which ran a neatly set road of flagstones salva
ged from the York River and the plantation’s fields. This road, laboriously “paved” and extended by two generations of the Vishonn family to the common road that led out of Caxton, was lined with boxwoods, willow oaks, and several varieties of holly. It was by this road, in the cool October evening, that most of Reece Vishonn’s guests came by carriage, cart, riding chair, horseback, and on foot, guided in the growing dusk by cressets placed every one hundred or so feet. Others arrived by boat on the river, stopping at the plantation wharf that sat beyond a vast landscaped lawn on the north side of the house.

  The cressets were appreciated by the arriving guests. Sitting in iron baskets atop iron poles, the fires of fatwood hissed and sputtered, and emanated a welcoming warmth as well as light. The fires would eventually die out, and not be relit. Except on nights when there was a full, unobstructed moon, occasions such as the guests were attending were as a rule all-night affairs, for there was no means for people to easily find their way home in the total darkness that enveloped the countryside. At dawn, the guests, exhausted, sated, and perhaps a little woozy from too much tippling of sherry and punch, would thank their host and drift back down the road to their widely spread homes.

  Hugh Kenrick and Otis Talbot rode on either side of the two-wheeled riding chair occupied by Arthur and Winifred Stannard. The couple’s sixteen-year-old son, Joseph, sat mounted on the horse that pulled the vehicle. Mr. Stannard, throughout the journey to Enderly, chatted on about the place, proudly pointing out landmarks and citing facts as though he owned the plantation. “Mr. Vishonn has a man whose only job is to keep up this road,” he was saying. “If he finds a broken flagstone, he must replace it, and regularly sweep the road of dirt, leaves and stones that might lodge in a horse’s hooves. These cressets were fashioned in Mr. Vishonn’s own smithy here, from pig brought down from a mine he owns above the Falls. He’s made a business of selling them around the colony. Why, he has even sold some in New York, and Boston, and Charleston. I’d even wager, Mr. Talbot, that some of his cressets light your way home in Philadelphia.”