The Constable's Tale (6 page)

Laughter broke the tension.

Harry produced the Masonic badge and passed it around. Holding the object daintily between a thumb tip and index finger, McLeod said, “I invoke the du Plessis precedent. If we are to hold suspect every Freemason in the province, we would quickly run out of jail space.”

More laughter from the guests. The exception was Carruthers, who, as everyone knew was not easily given to mirth. He said, “As one privileged to have taken the vows myself, I can tell you that no Freemason would have been capable of such a horror.”

“I can think of an explanation for the badge,” said du Plessis. “In my dealings with Edward, he expressed many times his admiration for our lodge. I think he wanted me to nominate him for membership when the time was right. So, might he not have bought such a lovely ornament from a traveling peddler in hopeful anticipation?”

“The most likely explanation is Indians,” the sheriff said on a chuffing breath.

“I can tell you this,” said Ayerdale, who had been following the discussion with a look of detached interest. “The Cherokee and Sioux filtering back from Canada are unhappy people. Before I left Williamsburg, I heard numerous reports of thievery and arson in the Virginia foothills. So I would not rule out the possibility that some young hotheads with murderous intent might have strayed into Craven County.”

“Why are they so angry?” asked Reverend Reed. “I thought they went voluntarily to help fight the French and their savages.”

Carruthers said, “Who knows what will set off these brutes?”

“My information is sketchy,” said Ayerdale, “but I gather they found life difficult under British military discipline. General Amherst has little use for men who will not obey his every command on the instant it is given. Unquestioning obedience is something simply not to be found in the Indian character.”

“So they just pulled down their lodgings and stole away?” McLeod shook his head in disgust.

“Yes. And I’ve heard they took along all the long rifles, ammunition, blankets, and trade axes the army had given them.”

“But how should any of that engender hostility against the likes of us in North Carolina?” Reverend Reed wondered.

“If I may,” said Reverend Fletcher, “I imagine finding British settlers moving onto one’s properties and building houses on them would upset anyone.” He said something else, but it was in a foreign tongue. Some smart Latin saying, Harry guessed.

“With all respect, Reverend,” said Ayerdale, “such is the tide of history. Once we rid our continent of the French horde, the savages will be the only thing standing in the way of our flag’s march westward. The Indians were slitting one another’s throats over territory long before we arrived, so this won’t be anything new to their experience.”

“I am not necessarily defending them,” said Fletcher, his tone more one of irritation than apology. “Merely offering a possible explanation for their behavior.”

To Harry’s dismay, the conversation began to shift away from what had happened to the Campbell family. As if finished with the subject of murder, they spoke of things Harry knew of only vaguely: the early string of British defeats, some incomprehensible, including the massacre of redcoats and Virginia militia at the Monongahela four years earlier. They talked admiringly of Pitt’s subsequent rise at Whitehall, and, at his behest, the flooding of America with soldiers, along with hundreds of thousands of pounds sterling for their feeding and housing on American soil, and to pay for recruitment of additional native militia. As Harry picked at his now-cold oatmeal, the group traded opinions about the three-pronged assault then under way against Canada, with General Amherst coming up Lake Champlain, General Prideaux by way of Fort Niagara, and General Wolfe moving his army onto the Saint Lawrence River to directly attack Quebec.

“I myself will be leaving tomorrow by schooner to get my things in order at home,” said Ayerdale, “and then on to Louisbourg, and thence up the Saint Lawrence to catch up with Wolfe. I am pleased to report that my fiancée has agreed to accompany me as far as Williamsburg. It seems Maddie has never seen our Virginia capital.”

Harry’s interest quickened. As far as he knew, no wedding date had been set. Knowing McLeod’s devotion to good form, he wondered if the judge approved of this arrangement, the betrothed couple traveling together in such close quarters as would be available aboard a schooner. But Harry guessed that if Maddie wanted to go, McLeod would be hard-pressed to say otherwise.

As the conversation continued on military and political matters, Harry’s thoughts wandered to his feelings about Ayerdale. They were muddled. Ayerdale was a person of substance in one of the most important provinces in the British Atlantic. Possibly he was destined for greatness. Harry envied the man’s winsome looks, a gift of the gods
of ancestry, the scar on the side of his jaw only calling attention to the perfection of the rest of his face. Harry wondered if he would ever find out the story behind the wound. The unavoidable fact, he had to concede, was that the prince of Virginia made a far more suitable husband for Maddie than the constable from North Carolina.

The discussion shifted to the condition of world tobacco markets and the European economy in general, subjects directly pertinent to Harry’s livelihood. Ayerdale let slip a remark about the Scotch being the “Jews of Britain.” Remembering the origins of his host and future grandfather-in-law, he quickly added, “Of course, some of my very dearest friends, including the late governor of Virginia, are Scotchmen.”

Harry’s innards warmed at Ayerdale’s awkward attempt to smooth over his blunder. He imagined how Ayerdale’s handsomely thin lips, which gave such pleasing shape to his words, could excuse so much.

CHAPTER 6

53: Run not in the Streets, neither go too slowly nor with Mouth open go not Shaking yr Arms kick not the earth with yr feet, go not upon the Toes, nor in a Dancing fashion.

—R
ULES OF
C
IVILITY

HARRY WAS MAKING UP AN EXCUSE TO TAKE LEAVE FROM THE TABLE
when McLeod brought the breakfast to an abrupt end, announcing he had to check on some late summer planting at one of his enterprises. Blinn followed Harry and Noah out the door.

“They should of just killed them all back in ’11,” Blinn said as they mounted their horses.

“I wonder if it could have anything to do with the Indian old Scroggins was talking about,” said Noah.

“What?” said Harry.

“Last night at the tavern, Scroggins was going on about some Indian he’d seen lurking in the woods around his place. He was talking so loud, I thought everybody heard.”

Scroggins was a small-scale planter of unknown age who lived by himself not far from the Campbell place. Harry turned and looked at Noah. “After all our discussion about Indians, you just remembered this?”

“The way Carruthers was going on at the table, I was afraid he’d go right out, find the poor man, and hang him on the spot.”

“What exactly did Scroggins say?”

“Just that he’d caught peeks of a half-naked red-skinned person prowling about. From the way he was talking it might have been his imagination. He’d caught only glimpses. It was almost like he was describing a ghost. But some of his chickens have gone missing. He’s got his pique up about that.”

“He’s never said anything to me about Indians,” said Harry.

“Well,” said Noah, “maybe that’s because he didn’t think anything would come of it. Since I’ve been living here I’ve had the impression people don’t take old Scroggins all that seriously.”

“Your territory again, Woodyard,” said Blinn. “But I’ll go along. Been a long time since I seen a live Indian.”

Noah said, “I’ve never seen one at all.”

*

On their way out of town, they passed the lot recently vacated by the acting company. The militia was drilling there, marching up and down and making turns and flanking movements to the tempo set by New Bern’s fife-and-drum corps. Six boys and men were playing a recently learned tune, “The Roast Beef of Old England,” reminding
Harry of the excellent food he had eaten at Cogdell’s the previous evening. The song was a sentimental favorite of Governor Dobbs, who only a few weeks past had left his rented home in New Bern and moved to Wilmington. Tired, he had let it be known, of New Bern’s weather and general climate, which he said was hurting his health, and also weary of the disrespectful way he felt he was being treated. The more responsible citizens of New Bern, including McLeod, had since started a campaign to get him back, fearing a downturn in their personal fortunes if the capital of the colony permanently relocated. Flattering Dobbs with a piece of music was one small part of a larger strategy to regain his favor. The militia just hoped they would get a chance to play it for him.

Harry saluted his friends, but they were busy with a right-flank turnabout, wheeling their triple marching column to form a line of skirmishers. The movement was not precise. In fact, it was painfully ragged. But everyone wound up in the correct position at the end, some by running the last few steps.

“I’m excused from militia duty as long as I’m serving as constable,” Harry told Noah as they continued, the music receding in the distance.

“This constable business seems a great deal of work for a job that doesn’t pay anything. Not that tutoring pays much better.”

Something about Noah’s friendly manner made Harry feel at ease speaking openly. “I don’t have to pay taxes during my term of service, either. But there’s more.” He lowered his voice enough so the town constable, riding ahead, could not overhear. “I think John just likes the bit of power that goes along with the office. Carrying out orders of the court, assisting justices, escorting prisoners, serving writs, rounding up drunkards, that sort of thing. Ordering people around appeals to him. I don’t care about any of that. For me, serving a few years as a constable is a way to get the attention of the kind of people we just had breakfast with. They were born into their world of comfort and privilege. I need to make my own way into it.”

“I can see that is important to you.”

“Judge McLeod says the next step, after a period of honorable service doing this, would be a church wardenship. Then, in due course, other offices and eventually entry into the Freemasons. All the best men in the Pamlico belong. But that step lies far in the future. For one thing, the initiation fee is more than I took in from my whole plantation last year. To get to the top around here, you need to be rich. But I have every intention of getting rich.”

“I had no idea I was in the company of one with such ambitions.”

“It’s not just for me. My mother has worked all her life to see her family at the top of this little patch of Britain. God willing, one day she will.”

He added silently to himself:
And one day, maybe a child of mine will be worthy of marrying a grandchild of a chief justice.

*

As they rode along, Harry could not free his mind of the jaunty tune the militia had been practicing. Pastor Reed had gone so far as to add it to their regular Sunday worship service along with the regular hymns, so the congregation would be ready to perform in case Governor Dobbs were to drop in.

When mighty roast beef was the Englishman’s food
,

It ennobled our brains and enriched our blood.

Our soldiers were brave and our courtiers were good

O, the roast beef of old England
,

And O, the old English roast beef!

There were more stanzas, but Harry had yet to learn them all. Something about how stout old English traditions in the current day were being brushed aside for the macaroni fashions of Britain’s old enemy, “effeminate France.”

To eat their ragouts as well as to dance
,

We’re fed up with nothing but vain complaisance.

The tune was circling through his head when they found Scroggins, whom no one would accuse of macaroni. He was sitting underneath a tree behind his house whittling with no apparent purpose on a piece of wood. His deeply creased face a picture of concentration. His ability to hear their approach possibly diminished by tufts of hair growing out of his ears. As far as Harry could tell, he had not changed his clothes since the last time he had seen Scroggins. He stank of hogs.

“We hear you’ve seen an Indian,” said Harry, getting right to the point.

Surprised by the sudden company, and their interest finally in his complaint, Scroggins’s small eyes narrowed in what looked like suspicion.

“And what care you gentlemen for what I’ve been seeing?”

“Guess you haven’t heard,” said Blinn. “Edward and Anne Campbell and their son, Andrew, have been murdered. People are saying it might be some stray Cherokee who done it.”

“I knew that red beast was up to some evil purpose. I would have shot him the first time I saw him up by Trace Creek, but I couldn’t get to my rifle quick enough.”

“Mister Scroggins, you can’t just go around shooting people,” said Noah. “This Indian you saw might be perfectly innocent of any crime.”

“Well, somebody has been stealing me innocent chickens. I just found another one gone. Next time I have a chance, I’m going to put some lead in that boy’s belly. See how he likes that.”

“I’d hate to see you put in irons for murder,” said Harry, taking a step back to get some cleaner air. “We’ll have a look around. Maybe we can save you some trouble.”

Following Scroggins’s directions, they came to Trace Creek, then set out upstream along its northwesterly run, roughly in the direction of the Campbell house. Before long Harry noticed a downy white feather
bouncing along the ground on a mild breeze. He signaled for quiet, though he knew that if there were any capable Indians with hostile intent in the vicinity, the three of them already would be either dead or seriously hurt.

First they came to what Harry recognized as a rough attempt at a longhouse in the Iroquois style. Slabs of tree bark made a haphazard covering over a framework of saplings not quite tall enough for an Englishman to stand up in. It looked flimsy and unfinished. At the entrance, a sodden pile of somebody’s belongings: a blanket, woolen coat and trousers, several other scraps of cloth and animal skins, and some cooking utensils. A few yards farther upstream, they spotted the Indian.