The King's Beast

by Eliot Pattison

  They sat on the back step as he responded to the girl’s barrage of questions about his journey before inquiring about Sarah.

  “Oh, Miss Ramsey!” the teenage girl swooned. “I should have been brokenhearted to learn you had a woman other than me in your life,” she teased, “excepting it’s her. She has the most amazing manner about her. T’other night at the table she spoke in the Mohawk tongue, just imagine! She named the vegetables and the meat and such. Mrs. Franklin says it reflects a fine Christian heart for her to take the time to learn the language of her heathen neighbors.”

  Duncan grinned. Sarah took every opportunity to spread learning about the tribes, but few, and certainly no one in Philadelphia, knew that she had been raised as one of the wild heathens herself. Her fine heart, moreover, had much more to do with the Iroquois chieftain and matrons who had been her adopted family than any Christian learning.

  “Do I have to follow her trail like a frontier hunter,” Duncan asked at last, “or will you tell me where she has gone?”

  Priscilla furrowed her brow. “Not at the artisan house, not until evening.”

  “Artisan house?”

  “The big house on Mulberry where she stays.”

  “You mean the Preston House?”

  “That’s the one. There used to be a silversmith there, and before that a candlemaker. Sometimes she walks around the shops. She takes notes about new goods from England. Sometimes she buys them and takes them to Mr. Thomson.”

  “Mr. Thomson the Latin tutor?” Duncan asked.

  Priscilla nodded. “The one you met with last time,” she said with a knowing grin. “And sometimes she goes to listen to her birds.”

  “Birds?” Duncan asked.

  “Oh yes, I think she misses her forest. There’s even a robin she’s named. Sometimes she says ‘I am off to see my robin,’ or sometimes ‘off to hear my Siko sing.’ But not today, ’cause today she went toward the waterfront. She likes to watch the ships.”

  Duncan spent a fruitless hour searching the waterfront, then headed to a small brick town house two blocks from the State House. He went straight to the rear door and rapped three times in rapid succession, followed by two evenly spaced slower knocks. A voice rose from inside and chairs scraped on the floor. Charles Thomson had a front door life, dedicated to students from affluent families, and a back door life, dedicated to the Sons of Liberty.

  Duncan watched as an adolescent boy, clutching a book and released early from his lesson, appeared around the corner and skipped down the walk to the street. Moments later the rear door opened.

  The tall, round-faced man gave a start as he recognized Duncan. “McCallum!” he exclaimed. “Praise God!” He glanced over Duncan’s shoulder, then gestured him inside. “We did not expect you so soon!” The scholar leaned into a darkened doorway off the kitchen and spoke a quick command. A boy of perhaps ten, rubbing sleep from his eyes, stumbled out of the room and darted to the back door. “Tell him our voyageur has returned!” Thomson called after the boy, then turned and offered Duncan some tea.

  Less than ten minutes later, another of the coded knocks sounded at the door and Thomson admitted a well-dressed man with a prominent aquiline nose.

  “Mr. Mulligan,” Duncan said in surprise. “I didn’t expect to find you in Philadelphia.” Hercules Mulligan was a New York tailor whose daytime employment was as a haberdasher to British army officers and whose nights were often dedicated to New York’s much more active contingent of the Sons of Liberty.

  Mulligan acknowledged him with a cursory nod. “I have customers who were transferred to Philadelphia.” He shot a pointed glance at Thomson. “Delivering their new uniforms was a convenient excuse for me to travel here.”

  “Mr. Mulligan has helped with shipping arrangements for your treasure,” Thomson explained, urging them into his front parlor. “And shipping expenses,” he added with a grateful nod to the tailor.

  Thomson leaned into a front window and looked up and down the street. “I don’t see your wagons. You do have the treasures?”

  In reply, Duncan reached into the knapsack he had so carefully guarded and dropped a large object onto the table. Thomson gasped. A pleased rumble rose from Mulligan’s throat. Thomson reached out with a tentative finger to touch it. “The incognitum is before us!” he exclaimed. “A miracle! From the lands of the savages to our fair city! Is it—” His brow furrowed. “A toe?”

  “We found several of these along a long, curving jawbone.”

  “A tooth! Dear Lord, the creature’s head must have been as large as this room!” Thomson’s eyes grew even wider as he ran his fingertips over the ridges of the tooth. “Oh, the ages! Ages and ages!”

  Mulligan stayed silent, studying the tooth with a satisfied smile. Thomson went to the window. “We must find a quiet place for your wagons,” he said, hesitated, then came back to stroke the relic again.

  “The wagons,” Duncan reported, “have not yet arrived. They are still traveling from Pittsburgh.”

  “But Duncan!” Thomson protested. “Mr. Franklin trusted you and Ezra to—” He halted as he saw Duncan’s grim expression.

  “Mr. Franklin is just a stranger across the sea,” Duncan said. “I went down the Ohio for my brothers in the Sons. And I didn’t gallop back all the way from Fort Pitt because of the bones. I came in pursuit of murderers.”

  Thomson jerked his hand back as if the ancient tooth had bitten him. The two men stared at Duncan as he lowered himself onto one of the chairs by the table. He held his head in his hands a moment, then looked up. “Ezra is dead.”

  The next two hours were torture for Duncan, but he felt he owed these leaders of the Sons every detail of what happened at the Lick and on their return to Pittsburgh.

  “Are there not blood feuds among the tribes?” Thomson asked. “You said Ezra had taken a native wife. No doubt there were members of the tribe who resented having an . . . an outsider marry into their blood.”

  Resentment flared on Duncan’s face, but he pushed down his emotion. “I know of no people more tolerant than those of the tribes,” he replied in a cool voice. “And the tribes have no spies seeking out letters from Benjamin Franklin. I told you, it was a letter from Dr. Franklin that choked away Ezra’s life breath. That was not done by a tribesman. The letter was about your Covenant.”

  Thomson’s brows lifted. “That was not your mission, Duncan.”

  “It was Ezra’s mission and he died for it, died for the Covenant’s plans for Mississippi trade.”

  A disapproving rumble came from Mulligan’s throat. “Not your mission, Duncan,” he echoed.

  Duncan ignored their ire. “The killers were two men from England, whom I have pursued from Pittsburgh. They must be found!”

  “The city is awash with Englishmen,” Thomson observed. “Do you have their names? Do you know their faces? Their destination in the city?”

  “I know little about them. One is tall, about forty with black hair, the other a few years younger, of more compact build, and brown hair. They are soldiers, I am convinced, but do not wear uniforms.”

  “Or once they were soldiers,” Thomson suggested.

  “There are scores of men who could answer that description,” Mulligan pointed out. “I could think of a dozen just among my customers. Need I remind you that Ezra had a different mission from yours, and they must think they ended that by killing him, so their business is concluded?”

  “I told you, they tried to steal the boat with the bones on board,” Duncan said with thin patience. “They gave their names as Samuel Johnson and Alexander Pope.”

  Thomson rolled his eyes. “That tells us nothing other than they have a modicum of education and a twisted sense of humor. And no doubt they were just trying to slow your pursuit, nothing more.”

  “They came down the Conestoga Road, just a day or two ago.”

  “With more than a hundred others each day. This is Philadelphia. They won’t dare lift a hand here.”

  “The
y are impetuous in their violence,” Duncan pressed. “Before they left Lancaster, they tried to destroy an astronomical device that belonged to some local society of scholars.”

  Thomson stared in disbelief. “A telescope?” He slammed a fist onto the table with uncharacteristic vehemence. “The Philistines! Can it be true? Will it be usable?”

  Duncan and Mulligan exchanged confused glances.

  “Charles,” the New York tailor said, “you have lost us.”

  “The transit!” Thomson cried. “Don’t you understand? This changes things!” Without an explanation he sprang to his feet and summoned the boy from the kitchen. Bending at his desk, he hastily scribbled a note and handed it the boy. “To Mr. Rittenhouse and then to Mr. Biddle! Posthaste!”

  When he turned back to Duncan there was an odd desperation in his eyes. “You must remember more. We must find these hoodlums!”

  Duncan was still trying to grasp the sudden alarm in the normally taciturn Thomson when Mulligan spoke. “Charles, collect yourself. You seem more moved by vandalism against some telescope than the murder of one of our agents.”

  Thomson lowered himself into a chair, gripping its arms tightly as Mulligan refreshed his tea. “The Royal Philosophical Society in London scoffed at our efforts in 1761 to measure the last transit of Venus. They publicly spoke then about how Americans could never offer anything of scholarly value. Now they have ridiculed our preparation for June 3, even mocking our own Philosophical Society. Such arrogance for fools in Pennsylvania to pretend they can match the natural philosophers of Europe, they say. But what they really fear is that we will exceed their own efforts. Many of them have still not forgiven Franklin for leading the way in electricity.”

  Thomson saw the uncertain expressions on his companions’ faces, so he described the efforts the scholars of Philadelphia were taking to assure multiple observations, including regular prayers for fair weather on June 3. “We will have three different teams from our Philosophical Society,” he explained. “One at the State House, one on the farm of Mr. Rittenhouse, and another down on Cape Henlopen at the mouth of the Delaware.” He seemed frustrated at their lack of reaction to his announcement. “We must rally! We must ship the bones and focus on defending our instruments! Don’t you see, the size of the universe is at stake!”

  “I’m sure it is,” Mulligan offered uncertainly.

  Thomson rolled his eyes. “If Philadelphia can correctly chart the times and angles when the planet enters and leaves the disc of the sun, then we, the natural philosophers of Philadelphia, can be the first to tell the world how far it is to the sun! Not London or Paris or Berlin, but Philadelphia! The king himself has built an observatory in London for his own observations, but we all know how awful the weather can be there. Captain Cook was dispatched to the South Pacific months ago for the transit, though no one can know if he will reach Tahiti in time. We have a reasonable chance of making the best observations on the planet, of making history. No representation in Parliament? By God, they will have to take notice of us then!”

  Thomson produced a journal from his desk that set forth the complex equation first established by Edmond Halley in the prior century, then turned the page and unfolded the same chart Duncan had seen pinned to the wall of the shed in Lancaster. For a few moments he forgot about the murders and let himself be drawn into Thomson’s explanation of the equation, then related how he himself had spent many enjoyable nights in Edinburgh with a professor and a telescope up on Castle Hill. But his attention soon lagged and he kept glancing outside at the dimming daylight.

  Mulligan did his best to guide the discussion back to preparations for the shipment of the incognitum and away from what he characterized as the childish act of vengeance on a telescope. He finally noticed Duncan’s wandering gaze and an inquisitive grin rose on his face. “Surely you have reunited with your coconspirator from the Catskills?” he asked.

  “I know not where to find her,” Duncan confessed. “Not at Preston House, not at Mrs. Franklin’s.”

  Thomson glanced at his tall case clock. “In her short time here, your enchanting friend has been the recipient of many invitations, trust me. But she declines most and has been raising eyebrows by visiting dining establishments with distaff companions and no gentleman in escort.”

  Duncan grinned, knowing Sarah would take delight in bucking Philadelphia convention. “I can remedy that if I but knew what establishment she was visiting.”

  Thomson shrugged and thought a moment. “There’s no more than four or five candidates. The inn on Elfreth’s Alley, the London Coffeehouse, the Blue Anchor, the Three Doves . . .”

  “And the Wild Boar,” Mulligan added.

  Reciting the list of taverns in his mind, Duncan hurried through the streets, dodging vendors hauling away their street carts and nearly colliding with a lamplighter as he was climbing down his short ladder. He grew more despondent as he exhausted his list and was no longer hopeful when he finally entered the Wild Boar Inn, between the State House and the port. He had worked up a thirst in his quest and after ordering an ale found a stool at a long high counter that offered a view into the more formal, and much larger, dining chamber.

  Duncan was tired and forlorn and his exhaustion began to grip him as he realized he did not even have a bed for the night. A bewigged British officer speaking in self-important tones to two other officers jabbed him with his elbow and Duncan was about to complain when a soft, throaty laugh rose from the dining room, instantly banishing his sour mood.

  Sarah Ramsey sat at a table on the far side of the chamber with two other women of her own age, one with blond hair and the other brunette. Sarah was turned sideways to him as she spoke with amusement to her companions. He eased off his stool, then paused, resisting the temptation to rush to her, to let her enjoy more of the evening with her friends. It was rare for her to be away from her responsibilities at Edentown, rarer still for her to be out socializing in a public establishment. Duncan settled back, filled with a warmth he had not felt for weeks.

  The soldiers beside him were also enjoying themselves, engaged in lively banter that touched on the poor quality of tea in America, rumors of another regiment being deployed by General Gage to Boston, and whether oysters were better from the Delaware or the Chesapeake Bays.

  “Sweet Jesus, what a filly!” the officer closest to Duncan gasped. “Just look at her!”

  With a chill Duncan saw that the man was gazing at Sarah.

  The bewigged officer unexpectedly turned to Duncan. “Do you happen to know her name, sir?” he asked. “The auburn-haired beauty at the far table, in the dark green dress.”

  Duncan collected himself, knowing the slightly inebriated officer posed no threat to Sarah. He shrugged. “I am newly arrived in the city,” he replied.

  “Their escort has apparently abandoned the ladies. Perhaps a king’s officer should offer his service.”

  Duncan gave a whimsical smile. “That might pose a challenge. I trust you have battlefield experience?”

  “You suggest such forwardness would not be well received in this most Quaker of cities? I confess I am not well acquainted with its conservative ways,” the officer said with a sigh, then he turned to fill Duncan’s tankard from the pitcher of ale he had been sharing with his companions. “You seem a man of the world, sir. How do I go about navigating your colonial mazes?”

  The shorter officer beside him gave a grunting laugh. “Navigating colonial women, I believe you mean, Major.”

  The major raised his tankard and touched it to his companion’s as if to concede the point. “I am bred for conquest, Lieutenant Nettles,” he said with an oily smile. “It is my essence, and my burden.”

  “And may God show mercy to your enemies,” the lieutenant said, lifting his own tankard.

  “Because blessed King George does not,” the major rejoined.

  Duncan inconspicuously studied the uniforms of the soldiers, recognizing the one farthest from him as belonging to an infantry unit
stationed at Albany, but he was not familiar with the ornate, brocaded uniforms of the other two. “You make it sound as if you are at war,” he suggested.

  The major gave an amused laugh. “The fantasies of idle soldiers.” As he spoke, his eyes shifted back toward Sarah. “The fantasies of idle soldiers,” he repeated in a lower voice, much more pointedly.

  “Stick to the barmaids and recent immigrants from England,” Duncan said as he sipped his ale. “Those provincial women tend to have skills that may be unfamiliar to you.”

  “Provincial?”

  “The ones bred in the colonies, outside the cities.”

  “You know this damsel to be such a creature?”

  “Look at her. The healthy glow that comes from country air. The brooch she wears may look like yellow metal, but it is only carved wood,” Duncan pointed out with some confidence, since he had carved the burnished maple-leaf brooch himself. He leaned closer and whispered. “And proper Philadelphia Quaker women would never venture out without a male escort.” As he spoke, Sarah laughed again. The blond woman with her turned to speak with the serving maid and Duncan realized he knew her. She was Olivia Dumont, Pierre’s younger sister, whose intellect and curiosity matched those of her brother.

  “Then certainly she needs a proper companion.”

  “You miscomprehend, sir. I am not saying she is need of protection. I am saying you are the one to be protected. They can be wild, the frontier women.”

  The major refilled his own tankard, and Duncan’s. “You miscomprehend me, sir. The wilder the prey, the more satisfying the hunt.” The major tilted his head back so far to drink that his wig went slightly awry.