The Crafters Book Two (7 page)

Cornwallis smiled. “Agreed. Besides, the government tells me that if I hold things together for a few years, there will be a property grant and a money grant, too. Yes, yes, that would be better. I could have Anna settled by the time I leave Ireland.”

They shook hands; then Eben said, “My lord, I’ve come on a mission of mercy to plead for some of the young tenants from my estate. They joined the French, but they were young and foolish.”

“Really, Crafter, you should know better, you were a soldier; you know rebellion must be put down firmly,” said the Viceroy.

“Aye, sir, the leaders, yes, but the poor boys were led like sheep.” Crafter spoke with feeling.

“You know,” said the Viceroy, “General Lake was advised by London to come down hard on the Ulster Rebels, ‘ ... use your discretion freely and inform the magistrates to forget delicacy.’“ He continued, seriously. “He burned houses if United Irish membership were suspected. Lake thought Catholic priests a deviant minority. The United Irish oath did ask that they ‘be true to the Catholic religion and assist the French if they land,’ did you know that?”

“You are speaking of leaders in Dublin and in Belfast and other major centers; I’m talking of young and unsuspecting lads—easily led.”

“Perhaps mercy could temper justice. Do you have their names and where they are being held?”

“Yes, my lord, here are the names. Most are being held here in Dublin; only two are in prison in Armagh.”

“Major Swainton, come here, please,” Cornwallis said in a louder voice. A tall officer entered and stood at attention.

“Draft an order of release for this group of prisoners, to be held accountable by Mr. Eben Crafter of ... of ... where do you live, Crafter?”

“Cookstown, County Tyrone, my lord.”

“Of Cookstown, County Tyrone, so be it. Good luck, Crafter.

“Keep those people of yours out of any more trouble. As for that wedding in the next few years, I will visit you in July of this year. I’ll bring the girl so you can look her over—she’s a pretty thing and headstrong like me,” he said with a smile.

The homecoming was both subdued and joyful. Crafter explained to the young men that he stood personal surety for each of them: if they were to be in trouble again, they would be hanged and he would be imprisoned. “We understand, Squire, and we are all owin’ our lives to you, thanks be to God,” said young Liam, Paddy Ryan’s son.

At home Maeve asked, “We can afford them passage to Canada or even to America, can’t we?”

Eben agreed, and in a month all were safely on their way to a New World.

* * *

On December 10, 1800, by Special License, in the chapel at Dublin Castle the wedding of Sean Crafter, B.A. and Anna Cornwallis, Spinster, was celebrated. The groom was flustered as are all grooms; the bride was beautiful as are all brides; and the parents proud as are all parents. The reception in Dublin Castle was the highlight of the social season and was, in part, a farewell for the Viceroy, who planned to return to India in 1801.

Eben and Maeve stayed in Dublin a few days, then returned home to Cookstown.

The day before Christmas, Eben rode to visit his father-in-law for a pre-Christmas drink.

“You’ll like this batch,” O’Dowd said. “I distilled it ten years ago and put it aside in an old oak wine cask from Portugal; it has smoothed as it aged. It’s the best I’ve ever made.”

After two large whiskeys each, O’Dowd said, “Go outside into the sun, I want to show you something most wonderful.”

A few minutes later he came out bearing a great two-handed sword with a gold hilt richly worked in the ancient Irish way. The blade was flecked with rust but still very sharp. “The sword of Brian Boru, the last Ard Righ, the last High King of All Ireland. He defeated the Norsemen outside Dublin at Clontarf in 1014. Alas, he died after the battle. That led to anarchy: the O’Brians of Munster fought the O’Neils of Ulster; they both fought the O’Connors of Connaught. What followed was hate that allowed the English to divide and conquer. Damn them!” O’Dowd said bitterly.

“Sad it was, but the sword is a thing of beauty,” Eben said. “I have never seen such work.”

“It is for you and my grandson,” said the old man. “I want this treasure to stay in Ireland; see here on the hilt in the Irish ‘I belong to Brian, King of Munster’ as clear as when the swordsmith finished his work.”

Eben swung the sword with both hands. “It would take a strong man to use this in battle.”

Just then a rider galloped toward them, a portly man on a black horse, dressed in naval uniform. “Crafter,” he shouted, “I have been looking for you!” The man had a great beaklike hook of a nose—it was Lord Larne, the former owner of the land on which they stood.

“Lord Larne, I have not seen you in years. What do you want?”

“My lands that you have stolen from me by magic. I met some of your Loyalist relatives from New York who now live in London. They say that you control magic!”

“Lord Larne, you were a terrible card player and that is all,” said Eben quietly. .

“I am no longer Larne, I am the Earl of Tyrone, Rear Admiral of the Red in his Majesty’s Navy. I am the most important member of the nobility in this half of Ireland. I intend justice and revenge,” he said, dismounting and drawing his sword.

“Stop, stop this, sir,” said O’Dowd, who moved to intercept the attack. The sword flashed in the winter sunlight and bit deep into the old man’s chest. He fell with a moan.

Crafter brought the two-handed sword up, at the ready to attack. At that moment Maeve appeared behind Eben. She shouted, “He was at our house, he has powers, satanic powers like his friend Justice Blackman. Silver, silver is the answer!”

“So, that was Blackman’s fate? Well, you have no silver there. You are a dead man and so is your wife, one of the poxey natives, I see. By all the powers of Satan, I order you to stand powerless.”

Eben turned his sword so that the hilt formed a cross as he backed slowly away. “Silence by all the powers of good in this world,” he intoned.

The big man shuddered but continued to advance.

Eben swung the sword so that his hands were on the blade.

He concentrated all his powers on the blade. Blue light seemed to flow from his fingers; the blade was bathed in a blue aura. It was done: SILVER! With a scream of rage, Eben slashed at the neck of his enemy. The sword cut deep, and, with a cry of anguish, Larne’s head bowed forward and he was dead.

Maeve bent over her father, who whispered, “I will die, will die very soon: the wound is mortal, I know. Eben must carry me into the Great Hall inside the hill fort. Take him, too, and his horse. Nothing must be left outside.”

Eben did as he was told. He gently carried the old man inside, placed him in his favorite chair, and kissed him on his forehead.

Then he dragged the dead body inside and left it on the hearth. The horse balked but finally was led inside. Eben tied him to a heavy table leg.

“Now, daughter, you know what you must do,” O’Dowd said in a weak voice. His head fell to the side; he was dead. Maeve wept as she kissed her father farewell. Eben carried in the sword of Brian Boru and placed it in O’Dowd’ s dead hands. “He should bear this sword for all time,” he said.

Maeve kissed her father again, then led her husband back into the little cottage, and closed the door. As she intoned a series of Gaelic words and touched the door with her hands, the door faded into the whitewashed wall and disappeared. They were alone in the cottage. “It will stay thus for two hundred years,” she said with tears in her eyes. “For now, you are safe, we are safe.”

Back at home Maeve spoke of Larne’s—Tyrone’s—threats.

“I was frightened for you,” she told Eben.

“All is over now,” said Eben. “Nothing more can happen.”

“Yes, it can,” his wife answered. “A letter came from London for you.”

The letter was from Mrs. Arnold.

My Dear Mr. Crafter,

I received your very kind letter on the death of my dear husband, General Arnold. He thought very highly of you, and I, too, remember you as a kind young man.

When General Arnold died on June 14th, we were all devastated. He was, however, in constant pain from that wound in the leg he suffered at Saratoga.

His funeral was attended by many notables of the Kingdom. The Prince of Wales sent his personal condolences. The General thought highly of you and in his will has left you the sum of 100 guineas ‘ ... for a good and brave young officer,’ he wrote. It will be forwarded to you by his bank.

I want you to know that the General spoke of you often in the kindest terms.

Your Friend in Sorrow,

Peggy Shippen Arnold

(Mrs. Benedict Arnold) Number Ten, Portman Square, London

“Perhaps all is over,” said Eben. “Lord Cornwallis is sure that Ireland is cursed for at least a hundred years. He is sure that Catholics will battle Protestants and Protestants battle Catholics, forever.”

Maeve said, “We’ll live for a better Ireland for our children and our children’s children.”

Eben held Maeve close as the day drew to an end.

England

Anno Domini 1804

While life on the American frontier was dangerous, the civilized society of England could be no less hazardous. London society was rich, full and enticing to young Delilah Crafter when she was sent from Boston to live with her aunt in London and gain some “polish.” Beyond the hazards of living in the land against whose army her family had fought, there were also darker dangers. While easily capable of protecting herself and her honor under normal circumstances, the excitement of London society could be overwhelming. Even more ominously, none of social or magical skills could save her from losing her heart to the right man.

Huntingdonshire

Near London

April 1804

My dearest Caroline,

I trust that you and your dear parents have enjoyed an uneventful journey to Bath and that the waters will help your papa’s gout. But oh! Had I but some magical power at my command capable of simultaneously relieving that good man’s afflictions and whisking you back to my side this instant, I vow I should employ it at once, though the use of sorcery is reputed to cost the user thereof her very soul.

For it has happened. Disaster. I am undone.

It came to pass almost to the letter as you predicted when last we were together. Do you recall it? We had wheedled a modest tea from Cook and conveyed it to the river bank, there to feast with equal relish upon sweetmeats and the exquisite poetry of Lord Byron. I can still see your sweet face, smiling around a mouthful of jam tart, as you said to me: Mark my words, Delilah, once your father moves that woman into your house, she will set about finding the swiftest way to move you out of it. (You also dropped a goodly portion of tart onto my copy of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. You will recall to purchase me that promised replacement at Bath, will you not, darling?)

O evil prophecy! O more than Sybilline foresight! O Caroline, how badly I now require the comfort of a friend! I face the abyss, the nadir of all Fortune, torments unspeakable from which every gently bred lady must pray most earnestly for deliverance or death.

She wants me to marry.

Yes, yes, I know what you will tell me. To marry, it is written, is better than to burn. Yet I swear to you, I do not feel at all subject to spontaneous combustion. Marriage is not for me. I have seen the beast at too close quarters to desire intimate acquaintance with the nuptial state. I do not, of course, refer to the marriages of our own blessed parents—Papa’s first marriage, I mean. Exceptions prove the rule.

Have you forgotten the many visits you and I paid to the homes of our school friends? In every case, the wife was a shabby, mousey, lackluster sort of creature. Though she decked herself with a rajah’s ransom in jewels and wore gowns that were the last word in la mode, the poor jenny wren had about as much spirit as a damp tea towel. The husband, on the other hand, was ever and anon brimming with spirit—and small wonder! He breathed brandy in much the same way as a fish breathes water. At least the fumes of the bottle somewhat mitigated the exhalations of the stable and the kennel which were his especial parfum. When he did not sweat, he swore; when he did not swear, he swaggered; and when he did none of the preceding, he collapsed in a chair beside the fire and snored. A pretty picture!

So no, thank you, I do not choose to wed.

Let your imagination frame my reaction, then, when Stepmamma summoned me into the front parlor not two hours ago and said, “Delilah, a gentleman from London will be calling upon us tomorrow. His name is Mr. Horatio Culpepper, of the Derbyshire Culpeppers. His people are distant connections of my family, so I can readily vouch for the young man’s credentials. I would take it as an especial favor were you to look upon him kindly.”

I could feel the blood mantling my cheeks. There was such awful meaning behind her words. Still, innocence is always a lady’s first, best shield, as we have learned beyond doubt or debate from our readings, my devoted Caroline. I stood tall—too tall, alack! You know how I gangle and tower—and replied, “What would you have me do for the gentleman, Stepmamma?”

A fleeting look of distaste crossed her mouth. So it always does whenever I refer to her by that title. She has asked me a score of times to call her Lydia if I cannot bring myself to call her Mamma, but I can do neither one nor the other. Lydia Jane Naseby would be a friend’s name, and she is no friend of mine, yet to call her Mamma—!

Call her what I might, she would have her way. “When Mr. Culpepper arrives, it would be courtesy were you prepared to entertain him a little by performing upon the spinet. Oh, and I shall ask you to pour at tea, if you do not find that too taxing.” She extended her right hand so that I might see the thickness of white gauze bandaging it, and tossed those golden ringlets of hers which are my bitterest envy. “Some of us are not intended by Providence to bake,” she said lightly. Her musical laughter followed me from the room.

Need I elaborate? Your sensitive soul, dear Caroline, is twin to mine. You can tell as well as I what she intends! To parade my spinet-playing would be bad enough, but to couple it with a display of how well I preside over the tea things—well! Mr. Culpepper and I had best hie us to St. Uffa’s straightaway and save the niceties. He must be wealthy. Stepmamma would find that a prime feather to tuck into her bonnet were she able to rid herself of me and at the same time secure a profitable alliance for the family.

Being privy to the low state of my mind, you may doubtless know whence I write you this. As always, when feeling poor in spirit, I have retreated to Mamma’s old attic chamber.

I do not know what possessed my dear departed mamma to spend so many hours closeted away in this miserable hole. Certainly it suits my melancholic humor and is a paramount retreat for the brooding spirit, but she seemed to like it. The walls are bastioned with bookcases, nearly all of which are crammed with a host of musty tomes. Those wanting books are instead supplied with ranks of oddly shaped wooden boxes and equally malformed glassware. These containers attract almost as much dust without as they hold within. The one time I did meddle with Mamma’s things, I could not stop sneezing for days thereafter.

One of the books lies open before me on the very table I use to write you this. Thus it has lain since Mamma left it so. Her quill remains beside a crystal inkwell whose contents have evaporated to black residue. The open page reveals lines and lines of Mamma’s clear, fine hand. I will not trouble you with the text as it is an impenetrable admixture of Latin, Greek, and some few phrases in plain English which still manage to baffle me by their obscure referents. I vow, the only portion of the volume that makes any sense to me is the initial inscription:

Honoria Marie Crafter

Her Book

Presented to Her Upon the Occasion Of Her Sixteenth Birthday

And in Recognition of Her Most Impressive Knowledge and Talent

By Her Beloved Uncle Juvenal Sylvan

“Knowledge and Talent!” Ah, that was Mamma, to the life.

It is difficult to picture her of an age with myself, and in possession of so doting an uncle, or to imagine how bitter his disappointment would be to learn that her only child has little knowledge and less talent, apart from the feminine arts. Papa never did see the point in giving a Classical education to a female, and poor Mamma did not live long enough—I was but six years old when she died—to persuade him otherwise.

When I lay my hand upon the open book and trace the alien Greek characters with my fingertips, I can almost believe her nigh. My whole heart desires her presence, her counsel, and her comfort. It pains me deeply to realize that this kind Uncle Juvenal must have known her better than ever I did or may.

Ah, me! Of what use these musings? My profuse apologies for so burdening you, dear friend, with the freight of an overladen heart. May the Season at Bath pass quickly, that you may return all the sooner to

Your Misfortunate Friend, Delilah

* * *

April 1804

Dear, distant Caroline,

My head whirls. My heart pounds with wild dismay. All my meed is woe and desolation, and my soul is as a barren, windswept crag where prowls the ravening wolf and circles the cold-eyed bird of prey.

Yet first, lest I forget, commend me to your parents and pray convey my sincere wishes that you are all having a pleasant time at Bath.

O Caroline, whatever shall become of me? He has arrived, the loathsome Culpepper! And not alone. The wretch has had the temerity to bring, unannounced and uninvited, a friend of his from London. This “gentleman”—and you shall see I use the term guardedly—is an American. There! I have said the word. How well you know that my own dear mamma’s forebears emigrated from the uncultured shores of that rampant wilderness in the days immediately following the Colonies’ revolt. They had sense.

One of the few extant memories of Mamma vouchsafed me is how she would recount the tale of her grandpapa’s extended rants against the treacherous Yankees. He was a choleric man, to judge by the portrait she hung in the attic chamber. A beady, burning eye regards the world askance from beneath the tightly curled and trimly powdered wig. Not even the mice have dared take liberties with that canvas, and my own infirmity of purpose is confirmed by the fact that I allow it to hang there still. Touch it? I? I daresay not!

I believe I must have burst into infant tears of fright when first I saw it, for I distinctly recall Mamma saying to me:

“Hush, my darling Delilah. That is only my grandpapa Thomas Crafter. Death has come for him already—O pity kindly Death, to have to deal with such a man! I know he looks harsh and forbidding, child. That is because he was. Still, he was one of the most Talented souls our family ever produced, and fond enough of me to say that I appeared to have inherited his Talent.”

In memory, I hear my baby lips lisp, “Talent for what, Mamma’?”

I must have asked that question, for I likewise recall her laughing reply: “Oh, there will be plenty of time later on for me to tell—nay, show—nay, better still, teach you, Delilah love. Here. You would best be getting on with this for a start.” She took a slim book from one of the shelves and placed it in my chubby hands. It was bound in blue buckram and had a snippet of white ribbon marking a place. I opened it, expecting simple words and pretty pictures, such as were my delight. Figure instead my childish anger to discover that there were no pictures at all, and the text was unreadable, the very characters thereof foreign. O outrage! I knew my letters well, and was infuriated to think that here were a whole new set to be conned. I threw down the blue book and said so, vehemently.

Mamma laughed at my tantrum, I am certain. “What, poppet, do not fret. Of course you do not understand the letters. It is all Greek to you.” (Here I
know
she laughed; to this day, on hearing a particularly wicked bit of wordplay, Papa shakes his head and remarks, “How your dear mamma would have loved that one!”)

Picking up the discarded book, she set me upon her lap and opened it to the beginning, where she showed me the initial text was written in English after all. “This book has been in my family for generations,” she told me. “My grandpapa Thomas had it from his father, and he from his father before him. My own papa and my brother Jason had no head for Greek—in our family, Uncle Juvenal always says, one either enjoys familiarity with the Classics or does not—so Grandpapa gave it to me. See, dearest? Here is where we shall begin your education, at the beginning of the book where the lessons are so simple you might even teach yourself, as I did. But you shall not need to do so.”

“Teach me now, Mamma!” I begged. My eagerness pleased her, and she bent her head over the pages so that I could smell the haunting scent of the orange-flower water she adored. But before she might begin my lesson, the bell of St. Uffa’s tolled the hour for tea. Mamma shut the book and told me to hurry downstairs, lest Cook be cross. “We shall have time for Greek, and Latin, too,” she promised. “Time for that and more. There is so much knowledge I want to share with you, Delilah!” She framed my face with her soft, white hands and added, “So sweet, so pretty, and so—yes, by the sharpness of your wit you could not help but have the Talent. Oh, I can hardly wait to see how much of it you do have! But wait we must, at least until tea is done. Never mind. There will be time. Plenty of time, my dearest one.”

But there was not time. That very evening, as Mamma and Papa were taking their habitual promenade, my poor mamma caught sight of her friend, Penelope Hawkins, across the street. Miss Hawkins had been gravely ill, and Mamma was so pleased to see her up and about that she disengaged herself from Papa’s arm and impetuously dashed into the road to greet her. Alas, she did not see the phaeton bearing down upon her, nor did the crepuscular light permit the driver to see her and rein up his steeds until too late.