Another Small Kingdom (2 page)

Chapter Three

I
f the lawyer's idea of luncheon was to read his paper, drink coffee and eat dry biscuits, there were those among his clients who took luncheon more seriously. They repaired, with others, to the select and popular Gallows Tree Club. The club's grim name belied its grandeur both outside and inside, but referred to Boston Common which stood opposite across Beacon Street. It was on that Common that in 1656 Ann Hibbins, a wealthy widow, had been hanged on an oak tree for witchcraft, one of three women executed for the same crime. The club's name was a tribute to the fact that the Boston witch trials pre-dated those of Salem by more than thirty years, a reminder if one was needed, that in all things of consequence Boston should regard itself as leader and guide.

In a well-appointed assembly room, after an excellent meal, a group of Boston's best and brightest gathered for coffee, cigars and serious conversation.

Here the talk could not be of fashion or the other frivolous matters more suited to the mixed company of the dinner table. Here the talk could be only of business, the state of America and the state of the world.

Macleod's last client of the morning was one of those who lunched at the club and was now sitting comfortably with coffee at his elbow and pulling on a good cigar. His fellow members listened as he told them that, while Macleod was an excellent Business and Contract lawyer, none better indeed, unfortunately he knew as much about politics as a dog knew about salvation. Heads nodded wisely in agreement. One of the older men commented that Lawyer Macleod took after his late father, a good man of business but a poor judge of life where its larger considerations were concerned. Another agreed. Yes, he most surely took after his father in that respect.

‘Euan Macleod. Now there was a dour Scot if ever there was one.'

‘It may be he takes after Euan in some ways,' offered another, ‘but he certainly got his looks from his mother. Old Macleod was no picture but his son is a fine handsome man. He could have married again a dozen times over since the war on his looks alone.'

‘And picked up a tidy fortune with some of the young ladies who would have been pleased to have him as a husband. Many a mamma would have been happy for her daughter to become the second Mrs Macleod.'

‘Yes sir,' remembered a stout, bald gentleman who had long since published a substantial second edition of his chin, ‘his mother was a fine woman indeed. I remember when I first saw her just after they had arrived over from Edinburgh.' And he was once again, in his mind if no longer in reality, a dashing young buck twirling his killing, black mustachios. ‘Dam'me, gentlemen, on my life she was the prettiest thing that ever set foot in Boston.'

The older heads nodded in agreement and there was a brief pause of pleasant thoughts among the senior men. The mood was rudely interrupted by a man too young to be able to share any memories of the beautiful young Mrs Macleod.

‘Stap me, gentlemen, so it was the old story, eh, beauty and the beast? She had the looks and old Macleod had the tin? Blast my idleness, it'll have to be the other way about with me, that's for sure.'

The stout gentleman spoke coldly,

‘Not at all, Rayburn. The money was on her side as well as the beauty. What he brought to the match was brains, and fine brains at that. Euan Macleod may have had a face like a hoof-print in a cow pat, but there was nothing wrong with his business head. That man could make money out of fresh air and floor sweepings. He could see a good prospect at night, in a fog with a bag over his head. He was a fine man of business and died rich enough for plenty of good Boston Protestants to attend a Papist funeral.'

‘Aye, aye. True enough. A fine man, though, as you say, a Papist through and through.'

Heads nodded and the talk threatened to turn to religion when a new voice cut in with a lazy drawl which was almost a sneer.

‘So, Macleod's got his father's brains, his mother's looks, plenty of family brass and is now in a good way of business in his own right. Pity he doesn't seem to know how to enjoy any of it. For all the fun he seems to get out of life he might as well be a backwoods parson. God knows he seems satisfied to dress like one,' and several of the younger men there grinned and sniggered in agreement.

Darcy was a young lawyer, in Boston only a year but well-to-do and dressed as near to the height of fashion as was possible. He spoke too loudly and too often for some of the older men but the younger set seemed to think something of him.

‘True enough, Darcy,' agreed the self-confessed idler, Rayburn, ‘he's a dull dog and dresses no better than his clerk, but I wish I had half the damned fellow's luck.'

‘Some may choose to think Macleod a lucky man,' drawled the young lawyer, ‘although I'd say you judge the luck of a man by the number and quality of his friends rather than the size of his house or the money in his pocket. Lawyer Macleod, it seems to me, has precious few friends of any sort. Does anyone see him in society? Does he dine? God's teeth, gentlemen, look at yourselves. You never refer to him by any of his given names. In fact, I've been a year in Boston and I still don't know what his given names are. No one uses them. He's either Lawyer Macleod or plain Macleod.' He paused, looked around, then smiled nastily. ‘But I do confess I have heard he is the possessor of a very unusual nickname, although with such a dry stick as Macleod I can't imagine how he came by it. I was told he used to be called …'

One of the older men cut sharply across his words.

‘You would do well to keep any tittle-tattle of that sort to yourself, Darcy.'

The atmosphere in the room suddenly became charged.

‘What's so damn serious about a nickname, and such a funny one at that? I didn't make it up, although I must say it made me laugh,' and indeed he did laugh. ‘How anyone like Macleod could pick up such a name as …'

But Darcy was again cut short.

‘I know of only two men who thought that nickname suitable for public laughter at Macleod's expense. I'll introduce them to you if you like, they're not so far away. After meeting Macleod they decided to take up permanent residence very near here. I can take you to them both if you wish, they're not far, just across the Common in the Burying Ground, and for all I know they're still grinning at his nickname. But each one has a pistol ball in his head to remind him of what he's grinning at.'

Another drove the point home.

‘In the head mind you, Darcy, not in the body.'

The older men, a few of whom had served with Macleod, nodded.

‘Macleod was one of the best pistol shots in the army in his day. If his eyes haven't gone I still wouldn't want to be on the business end of any pistol he was holding.'

The atmosphere changed again, still charged, but for another reason. The gathering listened as a new topic opened up.

‘But are his eyes still sharp, that's the question? It's some time since Macleod called anyone out.'

The gentleman with the chins smiled and looked around the assembly.

‘You know, it would be a fine thing to see if Macleod can still shoot straight. Yes sir, a fine thing.'

There was a pause before another voice added,

‘And a finer thing to wager on.'

An excited stir ran through the gathering.

‘By God, that would surely be something.'

‘I guess plenty of money would get put down on whether or not Macleod can still put a ball in a man's head clean as a whistle. It would be a neat judgement either way.'

Murmurs of agreement met this profound sporting observation.

‘Yes sir, a fine thing.'

There was another pause while the best business brains of Boston began to consider if such an event might be brought off. Their deliberations were interrupted by a thoughtful sportsman who put his finger on the one weak spot in the proposed entertainment.

‘Except for the man Macleod called out, I guess.'

The room filled with laughter at this all too true observation, and suddenly all eyes were looking at Darcy. The young lawyer shifted uneasily and remained silent. He tried, without success, to look defiant. Before this afternoon he had merely disliked and despised lawyer Macleod. Now he found he hated him. After a short pause it became clear Darcy was unwilling to consider providing his friends with their entertainment or the prospect of making serious wagers. Someone cleared his throat and noisily took up a newspaper as a sign of change of subject.

‘More trouble down in New Orleans, I see. Those roughneck frontiersmen are making a nuisance of themselves again. Mark my words, that Spanish Governor Salcedo will do something about it soon. He won't put up with it much longer.' Heads nodded. ‘And when he does do something I can guess who he'll do it to.'

A senior member of the post-luncheon gathering who had sat silent during the gay repartee, not being of a frivolous nature, harrumphed loudly. This signal being given, a polite silence fell. They acknowledged that the time had come for the serious-minded member to hold forth on his favourite topic, the failure of the Government to support, promote, or protect the interests of business and businessmen. Businessmen were, when all was said and done, at the heart of the economy and therefore the backbone of the nation.

‘Gentlemen.' He paused to look about him to be sure he had the floor free of any possible interruption. ‘We all know the Mississippi is our main highway.' Nods and murmurs of agreement. ‘And we also know that if Governor Salcedo squeezes us in New Orleans then we're in trouble, gentlemen, big trouble.' Hmms, ahs, and yes indeeds. The serious-minded member, feeling he had sufficiently conquered his audience with his opening salvo, settled down for a long occupation. ‘Without tax-free warehousing in New Orleans how is the South to get its exports on to European-bound merchantmen at a price that would turn a profit? Once forced to pay taxes for warehousing in New Orleans, gentlemen, what we get is not profit but loss. Yes sir, loss.' Suppressed murmurs of agreement with at least two stifled yawns as the serious-minded member began to hit his stride. ‘Why, if that damned Spaniard taxes our storage facilities we might as well shut up shop. And mark my words, it's our tax privileges Salcedo will have his eyes on. He'll use these roughnecks, real or imaginary, to get them. Yes, gentlemen, I think I speak for all of us, indeed for all honest businessmen up and down the Mississippi, when I say …'

Sadly the gathering was denied the wisdom of what he, on behalf of all honest businessmen up and down the Mississippi, was about to say because his throat, drying from sudden oratory, commenced a coughing fit. Port wine was poured and handed to him. But as he drank the tide of comment flowed away from his shores and conversation became general.

‘Why don't the Government do something, damn them? What good are they sitting in their fine new capital, Washington? They talk a great deal, I dare say …'

‘And what they talk about is more of their new taxes …'

‘They push plenty of paper around but they do damn little.'

‘And well paid to do that damn little by new taxes on our trade.'

‘But when it comes to looking after that trade and protecting trade from foreigners, we hear little enough. As for action we see nothing, gentlemen, not a damn thing.'

‘Haven't they got the wit to control a few roughnecks? Isn't trade bad enough with the war in Europe? But I guess you're right, trade isn't important to them, only taxes and politics, their eternal damn politics.'

‘Gentlemen,' the serious-minded senior member had revived at last. Saved by an admittedly inferior port he now made a strong sally to regain the oratorical high ground. Silence settled, if somewhat sullenly.

‘If we lose our rights in New Orleans we lose cotton. And if we lose cotton we lose half our economy. If we can't get the cotton out then, dammit, how are we to pay for the slaves to be got in? Already there's lily-livered abolitionists here in the North trying to hedge cotton around with dangerous and, yes I will say it, gentlemen, almost treasonous restrictions. Don't honest businessmen have to get the basic labour necessary for their trade? That's what we call economics, gentlemen, hard-headed economics. Not namby-pamby, addled clap-trap.'

Cotton-owning heads nodded, while others maintained a reserved silence.

‘Slavery is as old as time, the black man was made for slavery. Why it's Biblical gentlemen, positively Biblical. I don't say this just because I'm in cotton. You all know I'm in cotton. I'm proud to be in cotton because what's good for cotton is good for America and what I always say is …'

Alas, the indifference of the port told. What the serious-minded member always said was lost to another violent fit of coughing which turned his face a little more the colour of the port he was again offered.

‘Gentlemen,' another voice quickly took the vacant floor, ‘whether your business is here in the North or down South these are troubled times, war in Europe and divisions at home. I have no particular stand on slavery but facts are facts. No slaves means no cotton, and without cotton half an economy is what we'll be left with.'

‘There's serious talk the British are finally turning against slavery altogether. Not just the trading, mind, but the owning of slaves.'

‘Madness, sir, pure madness. It can't be done.'

‘Madness perhaps, but ten years ago abolition lost in their House of Commons by eighty votes. Five years ago it lost by four. Don't tell me, gentlemen, that there's not a strong enough movement in the British Parliament to abolish the trade in slaves across their Empire. And if the trade goes then slavery itself soon follows.'

‘Never, sir, never. Why a world without slaves, well it cannot be a civilised world …'

But if business dominated these luncheon gatherings, scholarship was not altogether lacking. An educated cough brought a grudging but respectful pause. Learning wished to speak.