| |
Nathaniel galloped his horse through the muggy night, veering toward the marshland to catch a gusty breeze. His head was fogged, but he didn't feel completely in his cups. A gnawing irritation kept him alert even though the moon was over its zenith.
The black thoroughbred he called Babram raced along, and Nathan kept his flintlock pistol gripped in his hand. The occasional errant might attack travelers in the swamps, and the roads along the marshes were not much safer. If not a disgruntled soldier or servant, there were snakes and alligators—the terrifying demons of the coastal forests.
Speaking of demons, he mused, there was Miss Christine Fryer to deal with. He knew her after a moment when she slipped into the room, but he did not put it together with the girl spying on him in the marsh. Not at first. Not until he stepped out into the hall and caught a glimpse of her a few steps back with that observant look on her face. Then it all came crashing down.
Mathew's little sister had grown since he'd seen her last. He wouldn't have taken notice of any Fryer daughters as a boy. He'd not become truly close with Mathew until the Revolution when they'd fought together aboard the same ship. Even after the war forced them to part ways, he'd been happy to return to Savannah and find his good friend there, alive and without a British musket ball in his bones.
Although Nathan had never been invited to dine at the Fryer home, the irregular hunting trip, occasional card game, and drinks after hours at Clearwater, had renewed and secured the strong trust between them. Two years ago, Mathew had agreed to invest in Nathan's quiet little side business that avoided tariffs.
"By gads, don't get caught," he'd said with a shake of his head. He seemed more in fear of his father than officials.
The Butlers had owned a small, sleek fishing boat before the war. With just a few side trips unloading cargo deep inside the inlets before sailing into port, there was soon enough money to buy a real ship. Now Nathan had space and speed to sail down the coast to the Indies, trade lumber and goods, and return with sugar and molasses, sidestepping American charges on imports in Savannah. It wasn't piracy, not by his definition. With the British out of the way, the new government had wasted no time levying new tariffs on imports by '89.
Nathaniel shrugged it off. He'd done a little smuggling with his father long before King George's war exploded along the coast. It hadn't helped. When the plantation failed and Percy Butler lost his beloved second wife, he lost everything else, including his mind.
Just a boy at the time, Nathaniel escaped the madness and joined the Continental Navy. Now, after all of these challenging experiences, he meant to put them to good use and restore Clearwater to the way he remembered it. Smuggling was a means to an end until he could stand on his own two feet. He was an American soldier. He'd be a law-abiding American citizen... soon. The way he saw it, Fate and the sea owed him a thing or two.
He turned west at a rough fork in the road and slowed Babram as they passed the swampy woods southeast of the secluded inlet. When he reached the long sandy drive that led to his family home, a sense of satisfaction washed over him as he studied the lights in the windows.
Babram trotted with heavy breaths toward the house as Nathan examined the view. The four columns in the front house had been replaced. Banisters and spindles had been repaired on both the upper and lower porches. The roof was completely rebuilt, even where the flames from his father's fire had not reached. Fresh coats of paint made the house look like new. All of it in less than seven years.
Nathan allowed himself a small, bittersweet smile of pride as he rode up to the small stable. It'd all come at a cost. The rice fields had grown over. Workers his grandfather had used left once the laws forbidding slavery changed. Papa refused to purchase human beings, married the Creek woman, Laughing Sparrow, to the horror of Savannah society, and life as they knew it began to crumble away. Then the war came.
Babram whinnied in anticipation of a meal as Nathan dismounted outside the stable. Isaac was probably in the house, but he could put his own horse up. There wasn't much help around unless he hired out. Even the small friendly band of Indians nearby had abandoned them when the war moved south. It was then Clearwater fell into serious disrepair, and all they had to subsist upon was a little garden plot and a few animals.
Inside the stable, Nathan went in search of oats, his mind returning to those dark times. When Laughing Sparrow had fallen ill, his father's rages against the world and promises of revenge had turned to madness. Lost and nearly broken himself, Nathan had fled for battle. It was after that when Percy Butler sank deeper into madness and burned a quarter of the house down as Savannah was sieged. Then he'd hung himself. Nathan had returned home years later to tombstones and ashes.
As the night deepened, Nathan plodded into the house to change his clothes. Isaac was snoring in the back room beside the pantry. Nathan walked in and leaned against the door. The old smuggler was asleep with his boots on and a lantern burning low beside him. He rolled over in his sleep then sensed Nathan was there and jerked awake with a scowl.
Nathan grinned and whispered, "Sorry to wake you, old friend. I just wanted you to know there's nothing to worry about. The girl—the woman in the marsh—did not recognize us at all, and I doubt she'll report it since she was unchaperoned and far from home." He nodded at Isaac's look of doubt. "She's Mathew Fryer's sister, the merchant's daughter." He snorted then laughed. "Our partner's relative. I'm sure she won't say a thing."
––––––––
NATHAN SLEPT INTO THE late morning before dragging himself to the study. He replied to a few letters of business then turned to his ledgers and puzzled over how to make his numbers add up. At dawn the next day, he packed his trunk and rode into town heading straight to the docks along the Savannah River.
His ship had sailed in two weeks ago, half-full of legitimate goods supplemented with Mathew's lumber. Business was done on River Street where he rented a small office in one of the warehouses and met with merchants and his purser, although he handled the accounting himself. Mathew kept his distance. His involvement did not need to be known. Mathew's business provided lumber to be shipped down to the Indies, but it also provided additional weight as unsold cargo to fill the space of the removed smuggled Caribbean goods when Nathan returned to port.
Nathan made the rounds up and down the row of warehouses then strode through the brisk salt air to his ship. Mr. Walker, his first mate, was the son of his father's old partner. He'd sailed the molasses triangle his entire life, and when Nathan had approached him to help him commandeer his own ship, he'd been keen on the opportunity.
"Tell me, Walker," he said, "are the men about and at the ready? I believe the weather is fair."
"The weather is fine, Captain," Walker reassured him. "I believe we'll reach the islands within three weeks."
"I want no new crew this trip," said Nathan. "We push our luck slinking into Savannah so light as often as we do now. It's profitable, but..."
"Yes," agreed Walker. The other two officers in the room remained silent. "Our legal business is well enough, but I do not trust all of the crew to keep quiet about our stops along the coast."
Nathan ran his fingers through his hair. "And we risk it so often these days. I just want a skeleton crew this voyage, those who have sailed under our black flag before, and who understand we'll unload in the inlet without any complaints or mentions to another breathing soul."
Walker clasped his hands on the table. "It's high pay and low risk. It should be no problem, even with Mr. Young nosing about asking questions."
Nathan lifted his gaze to the bulkhead. "Mr. Young?" The fat rat. "I should have never considered a loyalist turncoat who only joined our fight when the British left the coast."
Walker and the other men nodded their heads. The bosun said, "He ain't no better with numbers than he is rolling canvas, but he won't forget we didn't want him on board."
"God-willing he'll fall into the harbor and drown next time he's wandering around half-seas over," muttered Nathan. He was an honest crook by golly, but he couldn't stand a cowardly drunk. They set their affairs in order, and after a heavy dinner, cast off at low tide by moonlight to make their way out to sea.
Nathan felt good about the expedition. He would return a few days early and dodge into the inlet. There the crew could unload a portion of the cargo, and he'd continue on to the port the next day. Isaac would see that the goods made it to the plantation house and the cellar.
Nathan was close, so close, to finishing his work on the house and lining his pockets. Soon, he could get out of smuggling for good.
––––––––
PAPA PERMITTED CHRISTINE to visit at Dolly's aunt and uncle's home a week after the ball, and to her delight, they were able to spend two days chatting and embroidering tiny caps and shifts for the baby on the way. The Fenton home sat on the northern end of town, not far from the river businesses, and after Christine's promise she would come again soon, she returned to her bleak and austere house on York Street.
She was unpacking her things and tidying up in her room when Abigail rapped on the door. "I came to empty your trunk," she said in winded words, "but Mr. Fryer has asked that you see him in the study."
So soon? thought Christine with a sigh. She surrendered to it with a forced smile, passed Abigail a shawl from last season and urged her to keep it, then took her time walking down the polished stairs watching the toes of her slippers move along at a snail's pace.
Sunshine beamed through the transom window over the front door, and Christine soaked in the cheerfulness before she reached the closed doors to Papa's kingdom. With a hard swallow, she ducked her head and knocked.
"Yes." It was not a question.
Christine forced herself not to roll her gaze up to the ceiling as she pushed the door open into the immaculate study. Papa sat upright in his chair with stacks of books before him and a cup of steaming tea placed to his right. Light spilled through the front windows and made the swords over the fireplace gleam.
"Hello, Papa."
Mr. Fryer leaned back in his chair. His wig was set aside, but new wiry spectacles were perched on his nose. "You're home, I see, and punctual as promised."
"I did agree I would return today. Mrs. Fenton is doing well."
"I'm happy to hear it," he replied with no expression. "I presume you recall we've been invited to dine with Hawthorne tomorrow."
Christine's heart plummeted to the floorboards. She'd pushed that obligation far from her mind.
Papa looked over the top of his glasses and raised his salt and pepper-colored brows. "I want you to bed early this evening," he ordered, "to get your rest. You were ill with the last invite, and I cannot have you decline another invitation from so precious and trusted a family friend."
Christine felt sick. "Yes, Papa," she murmured. Avoiding his gaze, she stared over his head at the rapiers on the wall. "Of course, I will be ready to attend."
"Very good," came the crisp response. When she dropped her studious gaze to meet his eyes, she saw he'd lost interest in her and had turned his attention back to an open ledger. "Wear your best," he added, "the apricot gown you last wore at Blakemore House. It's quite fetching."
Christine stared, waiting for him to look up. She didn't like that gown. It was cut so tight she had to cinch her bindings and so low she looked desperate for attention.
Papa's quill went into the inkwell, and he began to scratch again. Forgotten after his instructions as usual, Christine curtsied out of habit then left the room. Tears pricked under her eyelids. She made a beeline for the kitchen but finding flour in the air and herself in the way, slipped back upstairs to hide in her room.
––––––––
MATTY VISITED AND SEEMED to scrutinize Christine during supper. He joined her later in the parlor as she sat alone with her thoughts and a pile of knitting. Papa had returned to his study after his conversation with her brother at the table.
She glanced up when he crept in but then returned to the yarn in her lap. He sat with a thump across from her, falling onto the settee and crossing one leg lazily over the other.
"What are you working on?"
She shrugged. "Mittens for winter this year. Papa does not want me knitting stockings like a working woman."
He snorted. "It's an honorable industry. I know several women who make a generous income with their craft, and it makes them less dependent on their husbands."
Christine barely looked up. "Yes, but Papa doesn't like it. He thinks it's unbecoming of me to make my own clothes now."
"Well, I admire your diligence. I hope there'll be a pair for me, too."
She glanced up at him to smile, but his gaze was focused on the low fire in the hearth. "How was business today for you?"
"The lumber business is thriving, and it's warm now. Of course, I ran errands for Papa since I was in town."
"Is that all? I thought I heard Abigail say you were down at the river."
Mathew look startled. "Well, yes, I was at the docks for a bit. Personal business."
"You have your ventures, I know. You're so fortunate, Matty, to have that charming cottage outside the city commons to live as you please."
Mathew seemed uneasy. He wasn't the oldest born son, but James had died and fate had dropped the family inheritance, responsibility, and future onto his shoulders—all under Papa's direction.
"I'm sorry you don't enjoy the family business, Matty," said Christine with a sad smile. She did not like being the only living daughter any more than he enjoyed being the only living son.
He shrugged. "It's not that. It's just I see a future in lumber and rice that's better than East Indian goods. Maybe even cotton if it could be pulled faster. There has to be a way," he mused. "There're other opportunities to make money outside of silk and china."
Christine raised a brow.
"I have my own ventures, as you said."
"I suppose that's why I overheard Papa complain your books are off-balance."
Matty shrugged. "Unlike him, I'm a poor bookkeeper. My shipping is irregular."
"Just what are you shipping then?"
He studied her. "Like I said, just my lumber and the like. I also invested money into Abe Shuttlecocks' business, and I have a vessel or two shipping other raw material to the Caribbean."
"Papa approves. He made a small investment in your company."
"He doesn't mind it," said Matty, "as long as he can examine my books and make more money." He said this with a wry tone, and Christine looked up.
"I suppose if you enjoy working with merchantmen and spending time on River Street, you should pursue it. It's certainly made the Blakemores a great deal of money.
"That it has," agreed Mathew. He shifted back into a retiring position, and Christine felt him examining her. "By the by," he said in a casual tone, "were you wandering in the marsh last month? South of town near Sandpiper Inlet?"
She looked up in surprise, but his lips pressed together as if forcing himself to look innocent. "Are you talking about your friend, Captain Butler?"
The cloud over Matty's face did not clear up. She knew he expected her to always be frank and was certain he was not speaking about anything else.
"Yes," he said after a pause. "It's just he mentioned it, you see, before he last departed for the Indies."
"He doesn't strike me as a ship's captain," said Christine with a shrug, "but yes, I was walking along the marsh looking for pink needlegrass, and I spied him in the distance. I didn't recognize him then, so I hurried away."
"Did you see him with someone?"
"Yes."
"Did you know him?"
Christine shook her head. "No, just a dirty, old sailor man I could have easily mistaken for a pirate."
"Did you hear anything?"
"No." Well, Christine paused in her mind. Had she heard something? It was their voices that had caught her attention, like the sound of hummingbird wings on the wind.
"My dear," said Matty, standing up to stretch. "You must forget all about it. You were practically out to Clearwater Plantation. You shouldn't wander out so far alone. Papa would be furious."
Christine nodded. "Yes," she agreed in a low tone, "but I know my way around with Janus, and Henry was busy in the stables. I'll be more careful not to go so far."
"Good," said Matty, "and don't go out to that inlet, not without me, understand? You don't want to run into some uncouth fisherman," he added.
She nodded, curious at his sudden concern about her hobbies, and irritated that Captain Butler had told him she'd been out riding alone.
"Actually, you should not go that way anymore at all—if Alligator George is having his way up and down the coast."
Christine said nothing. The rumors did not frighten her, and Matty was beginning to sound like Papa telling her what to do. "Busybody," she breathed, as Matty slipped out the parlor door. Then she remembered she had heard something that day. Why yes, Captain Butler had said something to the dirty sailor man that had ended with, "the next quarter moon."