The Stillwater Conspiracy (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 4)

by Georges Carrack

  Michael Stearns returned to his desk and resumed his task of reconciling the warehouse receipts – Marion’s job. The disturbing noise outside did not settle for several hours, and finally Michael smiled. The French took a beating. Whether that’s good or bad, I don’t care. As long as a great lot of both were killed, the war goes on. When more of them kill each other, it will be just another good day.

  A black thought settled on him. How likely is it that the stinking Captain Neville Burton was in the middle of it and didn’t come out?

  Stillwater’s old receptionist looked up when he heard a strange sort of scratching noise at the front doors on the fifteenth of December. A very small boy was trying in vain to pull one of the great doors open. He was defeated in all attempts by the breeze – the so-called ‘Christmas Trades’ - beginning their annual blow. He could get it no further than a few inches before the immensity of it was beyond him.

  The clerk waved the boy off, but he didn’t go, so the clerk walked stiffly to the door. His age was showing more now than it had a couple years before, and he was not pleased at anything that caused him to walk. At the door he waited callously until the boy had gotten it open a few inches and then yelled at him, “Get on with you boy. We’ll not have you in here.”

  The boy stopped trying to open the door and held an envelope up against the window for the clerk to read it. ‘C. Stillwater’, was all there was written upon it, but it was in a very graceful flowing hand – certainly female – that the clerk had seen many times before.

  The old man pushed the door open, almost causing the boy to fall into the street. “Gimme that, you ragged muffin. Where’d you get this?”

  “Ship’s come in, Mister. Miss Stillwater’s on it. Will you send a reply?”

  “With a gutter snipe like you what can’t even open a door? I dunno. Wait there. Right – there,” he said, pointing to a tiny corner by one of the meeting booths.

  In a moment he returned with a note to be carried, pressed a sixpence into the urchin’s palm, opened the door, and shoved him out. “Back to where you got the note, poste-haste!” he cried after him. The boy scampered away with a huge smile on his face.

  A ruckus arose in the office. Chester was yelling into the warehouse for a man to fetch him a carriage and for the company delivery wagon to hitch up the horse and go for Marion’s baggage.

  Michael decided he would stay out of the way while Chester created a minor panic. He wasn’t going to the wharf, either, being quite unsure what his reception by Marion would be.

  Chester did not reappear that afternoon.

  22 - “A Father-Daughter Conversation”

  “Oh, Father, I am so glad to be home,” said Marion. They had entered the grand foyer of Independence Hall. “You cannot imagine!” She gave him a long affectionate hug.

  “I think I can. You’re not the first person ever to travel, you know. But it has been a long year alone here. I wish I had never agreed to your ‘Paris Plan’. You take your time to clean up, and I’ll join you for supper.”

  Supper was soon served – a meal that Chester knew Marion particularly enjoyed – and the two sat facing each other in their familiar chairs. Marion fidgeted a bit, knowing the conversation would have its difficult moments.

  “You’re the traveler. Tell me everything first. Then I can give you the boring details of life at home,” said Chester.

  Marion then launched into the first and easiest part of the trip. “You have all the Washington reports – and the orders. I think Mr. Stearns double-checked all those for you, yes?”

  “Why do you say that? I didn’t send Michael to Washington. I sent him to New York, and he sent orders back from New York before he took his ridiculous ‘vacation’ to France. But we’ll get to that, won’t we? Why would he be in Washington? He is back, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know. I would say I don’t care, but I do. Not in a positive way. Now I’ll have to see him.” She pushed her christophine across the plate with her fork. “I am sorry to say it, Father, but it will come out. He followed me there. I know it because I received a letter from him – from the Capital City Rooming House - the same place I stayed. I hope you had nothing to do with it, because I have flatly denied him. I will not have the man, as I have told you before,” she said sternly and rather over-loud for a dinner conversation with her father. She cooled and added, “Anyway, it makes no difference because by the time he got there I was touring England with Ellen.”

  “Oh!” said Chester with some surprise. “Miss Aughton - she’s not with you then, is she? What happened to her?”

  “Soon married, I hope, to a friend of Nev… Captain Burton’s – one Captain Dagleishe. They met here. Perhaps you met him as Lieutenant Dagleishe of the Vanguard?

  “Don’t think so. What will you do for a… an assistant now?”

  “I’ll find someone. Don’t worry about it.”

  Marion then spent a full half hour describing her tour of England and London – without mention of Neville and Joseph, and then launched into her description of the trip to France.

  “I was quite surprised at the place, Father. After all I have heard about the country being so beautiful, the city of Paris is far dirtier and poorer than London; much of it quite disgusting, really.”

  “But you found your way to the meeting with no trouble?”

  “Yes, and then… Father, you would not have believed it if you had been there yourself! We are sitting there, Miss Aughton and I and three men, and Mr. Stearns walks in. It was the most awkward situation I could have imagined! He pretended it was a coincidence that he was at the same hotel.”

  “Was it? How did he know where to find you?”

  “I simply do not know. I had written him back in Washington – just a note saying we were enjoying our touring and that I assumed you had sent him there to follow up. And I mentioned that we planned to continue our tour into France in September. No more, Father, I am sure of it. No more!”

  “Hmmm.”

  “The peculiar thing, though, was that when he saw one of the men at the table, he began shouting that I shouldn’t trust him, and he turned ‘round, upset the next table, and ran out. I saw no more of him, not that it bothered me.”

  “Who was the man?”

  “His name is Georges Cadoudal. He was not among those I dealt with directly, but he seemed to hold great sway with them. His wonderful English was a marvelous help to us, as well.”

  “I see.”

  The two concluded their description of the uneventful remainder of Marion’s trip back through Boston and Chester’s ongoing business at home over the next hour, until Marion declared that she was too tired for more.

  “I am so pleased to see you back that I will wait on my breakfast in the morning, just to see you again,” declared Chester. They went off to their beds.

  In the morning at breakfast, Marion had one last suggestion before they went to the office. “Father, we are both quite curious as to Mr. Stearns’ behavior and the meaning behind his strange travel. Although I remind you again that I will not have the man, I guarantee you he would have me in a moment. The company’s New Year’s party is quite close. I will volunteer as his consort if he will help me with the arrangements – ‘cozy up to him’, as it were. I have no doubt whatsoever that if I do this he will confide in me whatever I ask of him. We should know his intentions. Shall I do it?”

  Chester did not answer immediately, which surprised Marion, but after a minute or two he said, “Yes, all right, but be very careful. I am beginning to distrust the man.”

  23 - “Desperate Measures”

  His work day complete, Stearns closed his inventory book, stood to stretch his back, closed his office door, left the building through the back door of the warehouse, and turned toward Church Street. Let someone else lock up. That’s not going to be my job any longer. Chester can do it if he wishes. It was later than usual, and growing darker fast. Twilight in the tropics is short. It was unlikely he would be home be
fore it was totally dark, but there was a quarter moon this evening, and it was already up. The evening breeze was light and the heat of the day was dropping with the sun to a very comfortable temperature. He stopped at the corner of the alley and Church St., deciding to turn toward the harbor. That decision to take advantage of the beautifully cool evening undoubtedly saved his life. He would walk along the waterfront to watch the last of the sun’s light before hailing a carriage to his rooms.

  A scuffle behind him on Tower Street, a long block away, gave him pause, but he was headed for an area where he expected to find a few people around. Not much mischief occurs where there are evening strollers or men at work. He did notice a regular tapping sound behind him, but thought nothing of it.

  He glanced to the right down Harbour Street before stepping out. Two men ran across it a block away, also heading for the harbor. What causes men to run? He wondered. It’s unusual.

  He crossed the street and continued down the gentle grade. The tapping behind him continued, so he turned to see what it was. When he did so, a very large man with a peg leg a block behind him stopped walking and turned to look at the building beside him. Was there a shop there? Is he looking in its window? I don’t remember a shop there.

  Stearns was now more alert. He had had some training years ago on the topic of being followed. It was mostly forgotten, he was sure, but this smelled of it. Just being followed, or do they mean to harm me? He wasn’t a frail man, but he wasn’t armed. He wondered about his options. The one he liked best was simply hailing a hack and riding away laughing, but the city was growing quieter by the minute. He didn’t see more than two or three wagons rolling about the street, and those weren’t close. He could try hiding in an alley or knocking on some door, but that seemed cowardly. He could just continue with his original idea of going for a walk. If they were just following, they would learn nothing; he had nothing to hide.

  Michael opted for the latter, and kept on walking down the street. Maybe there would be more traffic on Port Royal Street, and he would find a carriage there. Suddenly, he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Two men - he suspected it was the two he had seen run across Harbour St. – appeared in front of him. Another was coming across Church Street from an alley, and the big man with the wooden leg was closer behind than he thought. They were not just following. Knives were coming out. Michael was not studying them carefully, but he did notice that all wore white shirts with a single silver button in the center below the neck. They began to crowd in closer. Despite being six feet tall himself, he noted them as being tall; the one with the peg leg more so. They came closer, blocking escape in any direction. They were imposing; threatening. He smelled rum and something like lemons. He knew he would be lying in a pool of blood soon if he did nothing, so he took his chance. He dove at the wooden leg, putting his shoulder against the knee. The big man shrieked with pain, and his prosthetic, normally held in place with leather straps, came off. One down, he thought. The big one down. He had a weapon now – a three inch wooden stick about two feet long. He swung it with all his might at the leg of the next closest man, and he went down hard, his knife clattering into the street.

  Michael tried to rise, and took a short knife in the right shoulder for his trouble.

  “You stupid bugger,” he screamed, “Right where that repulsive Burton stabbed me,”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” screeched the man in a maniacal tone, “It sounds like you deserve it, gov.” Those were his last words before Michael smashed his face in with the peg leg.

  One left. The man punched Michael in the face, and he sprawled into the street – in front of a pair of carriage horses on the way to the harbor. He heard men yelling and saw feet landing on the pavement, as if dropped from heaven.

  There was more to it, but he did not remember much more than being unloaded – without his jacket - in front of his house and going inside to clean his face and flop into bed.

  “What’s happened to you, Michael?” asked Chester. Michael thought he detected an actual tone of concern.

  Michael slumped into his office chair. Chester entered his office, as did two men from the warehouse, and Marion watched through his window.

  “Why did he even come in?” someone was asking. “Look at him. Bruises and a bloodied shoulder. He should be in bloody hospital or something, muchwhat comin’ ‘ere.

  Marion pushed her way through and knelt beside him. “What happened, Michael?” she asked.

  This is why I came in, he thought - to see if Marion cares for me even as much as she would for a damaged dog. She does, I see, so there’s hope.

  He began to ramble about the affair; how he had left the night before and was followed…

  “Get him a rum,” she said to one of the men.

  He drank it and jabbered on for another fifteen minutes. Chester and the other wandered away after they had gotten the gist of it, and he raised his hand enough to grab her arm. “Marion,” he said. “I think your father’s put them up to it… tried to have me killed because I know about the guns. I can’t report him, because I would lose you, you know, but I’m still quite alive and well, you see?”

  She turned colder, he could tell, and she said, “Mr. Stearns, you need to take some rest. I will have a doctor come ‘round your house to see about stitches in that arm, but you simply must stay quiet a few days.” She left this office, and he could hear her giving orders to accomplish what she had told him.

  She does care, he thought.

  Three days later, after some good rest and a doctor’s care, he thought himself well enough to report to work. He would stick to desk jobs – no customer interaction…

  “You’re well enough to do some good today, Mr. Stearns?” Marion asked when she saw him sit in his chair. His face still showed the scrapes of the cobble on Church Street, and he wore a sling for his right arm, like that which he had worn for months when she was away.

  “Nothing to do at home; I can do something here.”

  “Well, then, I have something you might like. Will you help me make the preparations for our annual New Years’ affair? I am quite keen for it, as I missed last year’s.”

  “You didn’t miss much. Without you, it was quite dull, in my opinion, with nothing to light the place up. But why would I help with that? I am usually more of a guest of honor.”

  “Because I need a consort, and despite your infirmities, you might serve,” she said.

  What a fox. She favors my attentions, and is finding excuses.

  “Let me think on it,” he said. “What would you have me do?”

  “Decisions, mostly. You can sit there, and I’ll bring the ideas and what we know of the attendees. We need to create an appropriate seating chart, decide on the wine…”

  “Ah, yes, yes. All right. I had forgotten all that. I quite enjoy it, yes. I’ll do it.” And have you on my arm all night. Why would I not?

  Marion departed, leaving Michael to fiddle with some business trivia. She returned to ask him about Mr. & Mrs. Freemantle – whether they could be allowed to sit together or whether it would be too disrupting. They laughed about it. She left and came back with another question about the Groogans, and they laughed some more. She put the whole list of local guests down in front of him and they lapsed into hilarity about the dynamics of Kingston aristocracy.

  Chester came across the hall to ask what the ruckus was, and when he found the snickering answer to be ‘the guest list’, he left, undoubtedly chalking the whole thing up to ‘high holiday spirits’. Marion and Michael laughed until the tears rolled from their eyes about the thoughts of ‘Mr. so-and-so’ sitting next to ‘Mrs. such-and such’, etc. There was, after all, a long-standing familiarity between them. A pause came at last, and Marion looked Michael in the eyes and said in a far more sober tone, “Michael, we have to talk about the guns…”

  The party was a success, as it was every year. Marion was the center of attraction for a dozen captains and lieutenants. Michael reveled in the honor of escorting he
r in and out, the first dance and a toast. The evening ended with Marion giving him a kiss on the cheek and a heartfelt ‘thank you’.

  I am returned to Jamaica I love, thought Michael. It is the life I have always longed for.

  The new year of 1806 stumbled forward into January.

  Two weeks later one of the sales associates assigned to cover harbor observation sauntered into the lobby and handed his list to the old Reception clerk. The clerk in turn took his list to Chester’s office and set it in his tray. This daily event always caused Marion and Michael to come across from their offices and review it with him – for planning purposes and their own curiosity.

  “This third one, La Desiree. It’s Captain Burton’s ship, Father,” said Marion.

  Is he aboard? My God, what now? thought Mr. Michael Stearns.

  24 - “Unraveled”

  Neville heard the sentry stomp his boots and a rap at his cabin door. “Jamaica on the starboard bow, Sir,” Towers called in. “Thought you might want to view it.”

  “I do, indeed,” He went topside and joined a gathering of officers on the foredeck.

  It is a time to see the splendor of the world, he thought. I have been through my papers and over them again. Now is a time to look toward my home, as she may yet be. Jamaica lay as a thin brown line atop the water. A thin white line perched upon that, except to the West, where a great pillar of cloud rose up and away into the blue of sky, lit to dazzling white by the morning sun and formed into the shape of an anvil by the winds on high. She would grow as the hours passed, he knew, and the brown line would rise from the ocean and show verdant green as they neared the island’s eastern end; the home of Marion.