The Old Cape Teapot (17 page)

As soon as he closed the door, he found the last of the ale and proceeded to climb back up the stairs, drinking as he moved upward on his quest to find clean garments for the day’s errands. He found a small amount of water in the dry sink bowl and managed to wash
his face and hands. After spotting a dress shirt on the floor, he remembered it was only worn once and decided it would do just fine.

Before traveling to seek the discipline of Hephzibah’s father
upon his rude daughter and the authorities regarding the Antiguan slave, Tobey, he needed to do one more thing: secure John Julian’s map in
a safe place. He first went into his study to contemplate a suitable
hiding
spot, then he sat at his desk, pulling drawers in and out, trying to think of where he could hide the map. Davis pushed some books to
the side of his desk and slid Baker’s folded fact sheet into his ledger book for
later. Finally, glancing around the small room for his answer to
secrecy,
he spotted the glass-fronted cabinet against the opposite wall.
Behind its doors, the blue teapot that Felicity seemed to find distasteful sat elegantly on the wooden shelf next to the matching tea bowls and saucers. A broad smile beamed across his face as he retrieved the teapot from its perch.

Taking pen in hand, he drew a tiny windmill near the site of the
proposed mill on the map and added the number 3 for his steps, along with a W for the directional marker. Folding the map in quarters and then once more, he fit the vellum into the opening of
the ceramic vessel and sealed the lid with wax and glue. After latching the door to the cabinet, he stood back to admire his cleverness.

Before he left the house, Davis pocketed his pistol and grabbed his winter waistcoat. Throwing it over his shoulder, he reached for
the latch and gingerly stepped outside. With the first step of his heel against the urine-coated mud, his foot slid from under him, sending his body and limbs flailing into mid-air. Within seconds, the back of his skull came crashing down against the stone threshold. As blood oozed from the open gash, Davis’s life force seeped in an erratic
pattern that encircled his head. While he breathed his last labored breath, the tiny snowflakes that floated gently throughout the winter landscape stole any warmth that lingered in his body.

November 1722

BOSTON

AN EARLY MORNING RAIN
turned into sleet and stung the faces of the few people that ventured out onto Beacon Hill. A messenger approached house #35 and checked his ledger to make sure he was at the correct address. When he was certain, he lifted the iron circle
attached to the door to sound his presence. The massive
entranceway opened and a young employee of the Gibbs family appeared.

The young woman shielded her eyes from the cold rain. “Yes?”

“I’m looking for Mrs. Felicity Davis.” Water dripped from the corners of the gentlemen’s hat.

“Come in. Wait here, please.”

He followed her inside. As the door closed behind him, John, the head butler appeared in the foyer and whispered to the maid to step back. She moved in front of the stairway leading to the second floor.

John turned to the unexpected visitor. With a somber face he
asked, “What is your business with Mrs. Davis?”

“I’ve come from Yarmouth, Massachusetts with, I’m afraid, bad news.”

“And?”

The messenger opened his waistcoat and produced a letter with Felicity’s name on its front.

At that moment, Bethia Gibbs came into sight at the top of the stairs. “John, what is the disturbance?” Before he could answer, she descended down the steps to see for herself. The old woman wagged her finger and chastised her servant, “We must have absolute quiet in this house.”

“Forgive me, madam, but there is news from Yarmouth.”

Mother Gibbs showed no emotion as she instructed him further, “Show the man to the study and then leave us.”

The sparse room was decorated with shelves of books, two lone chairs and a small desk. The three pieces of furniture were situated in the middle of the room. Atop the desk’s wooden surface rested a quill pen with inkbottle. Mother Gibbs sat down and motioned for the man to also sit. “Now, what is your news?”

“I have a letter for the wife of Thomas Davis from the constable of Yarmouth, Massachusetts.”

Mother Gibbs sat taller in her chair. “That is my daughter. I’ll deliver it to her.” She stretched her arm out to accept the letter.

Hesitant to give the missive to anyone other than the intended recipient, the stranger held it firmly between his fingers.

Mother Gibbs motioned with her hand to pass it over, but he held it fast. She grew impatient and raised her voice, “Give me the letter!”

“Forgive me, madam, the law states that the letter is to be hand delivered to Mrs. Felicity Davis.”

She sat back in her chair and tried to soften her approach by
lowering her head and speaking in quieter tones. “I am Felicity’s mother and, at this moment, she is in her eighth month with child and beginning her travail.” She stood and walked over to the
window. “You must excuse me, but I’m quite worried about her health and I am not of right mind.” She took out her kerchief and dabbed at her dry eyes.

The courier hesitated, but growing more convinced of the dire situation, slid the letter across the desk.

Mother Gibbs, out of the corner of her eye, could see it was free of his grasp and smiled, knowing she had won. She returned to the desk, placed her fingers on top of the vellum and coyly smiled. “I will see that my daughter receives this message.”

He rose and gave the woman a slight bow, then asked, “Shall I wait for her response?”

“No, that will not be necessary. I am sure whatever the news is, we will take care of it in due time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mother Gibbs rang for John to show the stranger out. Once alone in the study, she opened the letter.

Mrs. Felicity Davis,

I regret to inform you of the accidental death of your
husband, Thomas Davis, which occurred in Yarmouth, Massachusetts on the eighteenth day of October in the year of our Lord, one thousand seven hundred and twenty two. Please be advised that his house and possessions will be secured until I receive further word as to your wishes.

Sincerely,

Constable John Maker

Yarmouth Massachusetts

Mother Gibbs was stunned, but she felt only a fleeting wave of sadness fly in and then right out of her heart. This was good news! She began to contemplate her options, and all of them began with
the words that Felicity was now a free woman. Her status in society
would be secured by this new increase in wealth. She decided to
withhold the information until after the birthing of her grandchild. No need to bring more stress to her daughter. She folded the letter and locked it into a small drawer in the desk, made a quick adjustment to her bodice, pulled a few strands of gray hair behind her ears and stood tall.
Bethia Gibbs looked happy for the first time since her daughter had unfortunately married Thomas Davis.

***

Ten days passed. Felicity still lay in her bed, unaware of her
husband’s demise and struggling with false labor pains.

Today, she screamed in agony as the child finally began to crown its head. Servants rushed about the house. Mother Gibbs paced as the midwife and doctor tended to Felicity’s rants and
tirades.

“He will never touch me again!” she screamed. “I hate him for doing this to me!”

“Try to breathe,” coaxed the midwife.

Felicity thrashed about ignoring any advice or consolation. As
the child finally made its appearance, Bethia Gibbs thought her
looking
glass would shatter with the pitch of her daughter’s shrieks. When the drama was finished, the doctor checked the child’s hands, feet,
and
little body for unusual markings or faults; the infant boy seemed
perfect.

Mother Gibbs retired to the study. She sat at her desk and placed an apprehensive hand on the small drawer that hid the letter about
Thomas Davis. She decided that she would inform Felicity of the
untimely death of her husband in a few days. Determined to bring closure to her daughter’s marriage and reap the benefits of
inheritance,
Mother Gibbs anxiously awaited the appearance of the family
lawyer.

***

YARMOUTH, MASSACHUSETTS

Davis’s employee, Jacob, had recently brought to Constable Maker’s attention some interesting information about the relationships between Tobey, Hephzibah McCleron, and Davis. Seeking closure
with the
Davis death, he visited the coroner, Dr. Able. He wanted to be sure that the death was truly an accident. After a lengthy discussion between Maker and the good doctor, in addition to several pints of ale, they both decided that there should be an inquiry. Maker
thought it best to pay a visit to the McClerons, in Sandwich, and talk to the man and woman involved, specifically the Antiguan.

***

Late November was not the best time to travel on Cape Cod. Constable Maker admitted this fact to himself as he rode along the new road to Sandwich, tightening his scarf against the strong winds
that stung his cheeks. The Constable of Sandwich had given him directions, and he watched eagerly for a metal pig turning round and round atop the
peak of the McCleron house. He was relieved to
turn onto the path
that led to the twirling pig.

Hephzibah looked through the one window in the front parlor. “Father, someone is coming.”

“Daughter, to the kitchen, I will handle the visitor,” John
McCleron looked outside. “Go and fetch Tobey.”

“Yes, Father,” Hephzibah said as she exited the rear of the house towards the barn.

The knock on the door was determined. McCleron opened the door with caution. “May I help you?” he asked the stranger.

“John McCleron?” Constable Maker inquired.

“Yes.”

“Do you have a daughter by the name of Hephzibah?”

“Yes. Why would you be asking?”

The only words from the chilled man were, “Constable John Maker of Yarmouth. May I come in?”

McCleron opened the door wider and then shut it quickly
against the cold air, giving the man only a few seconds to enter.

Maker shook his hat, stamped his mud-caked shoes and then got straight to the business at hand. “Are you aware of the death of Thomas Davis?”

“Yes, news of that kind travels fast.”

“There has been new evidence brought to my attention that your daughter and a certain black Antiguan had disagreements with the deceased.”

Hephzibah appeared with Tobey in tow. Constable Maker took note of them standing by the hearth and smiled. “I see that my
investigation has just become easier.”

***

Bread, chowder, and ale were laid out across the sideboard as Tobey, McCleron, and Constable Maker talked and watched Hephzibah scurry around the kitchen. She spoke very little, trying to listen as
her father explained what had happened prior to her returning home.

Tobey contributed few, if any, details of his last encounter with Davis.

McCleron asked Tobey, “Do you have papers?”

Tobey withdrew his identification from his vest pocket. It
verified that the Smith family of North Harwich owned him and that he was not a runaway.

The Constable offered his sympathies to the young woman as he scraped the last of the hot white liquid from his bowl with a piece of
bread. “I’m sorry to hear of your unfortunate and shameful
experience with your employer.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hephzibah nodded.

Tobey sat quietly, wondering if he should speak. Thinking it best to explain things for his own survival, he uttered, “There is more.”

All eyes focused on him.

“I want to tell you the reason why I joined Davis on his trip from Antigua.”

Hephzibah stood next to him and placed her hand on his
shoulder. “No, Tobey.”

He looked up to the woman whom he had come to love and
said, “Yes, I must.”

The two older men at the table grew attentive as Tobey relayed
the story of John Julian’s request for him to find the treasure that was buried on Cape Cod. Maker interrupted only once with, “Do you
know the whereabouts of this so-called cache?”

“I do.”

Tobey leaned across the table and begged, “You must
understand, I only sought my freedom and a chance to live with dignity.”

The men looked at each other.

Maker asked, “May I speak with you, Mr. McCleron, in private?”

Tobey placed an arm around Hephzibah’s waist as they watched the two men leave the kitchen.

Maker spoke first, “You are aware that no one needs to know of this new information…I mean about the cache?”

“I see where your conversation is going,” McCleron replied. “But our options for retrieval must be within the law.”

Maker added, “As far as the treasure goes, finding it may be advantageous for both of us. And if the Antiguan only seeks his
freedom, I probably could arrange a meeting with Mr. Smith
concerning his situation.”

“Mr. Smith is fond of my pigs for special occasion feasts. I might
be able to broker a trade of some sort for Tobey’s freedom,”
McCleron considered. “Since my sons have gone, he has become invaluable to me on the farm, and I know that my daughter would be agreeable to him remaining here. He is a good man.”

Maker smiled and added, “Let me think on this. Tomorrow we
could go to find the treasure and, if we’re lucky, all may play out in our favor. Contact with Mr. Smith will have to wait.”