Furmidable Foes

15

December 2, 1787

Sunday

Mr. Finney’s impressive carriage rolled down the long drive of Royal Oak as he and his lady were going to mass.

Ralston, in the mare barn, watched. As few Catholics lived in Albemarle County, Virginia, he found the ritual fascinating. Not that he had ever attended a service, but Ard told him about the candles, the votives, the big baptismal font, all the statues.

Each breath Ralston and the mare he was grooming took came out in puffs of smoke. Ralston knew it wasn’t smoke but that’s what it looked like. He finished the careful grooming, slid on the mare’s blanket, and moved to the next stall.

Working abated some of the cold. The notion that Sunday was a day of rest applied more to the humans than the animals, who needed food and water. Ralston was happy to oblige. If he took on the three barns, caring for all the horses, somewhere along the line he would call in the time he did this for the two other fellows, each assigned a barn. They took off on Sundays.

Fortunately, William had not been put in charge of a barn. Ard used him more for riding but also for odd jobs, which allowed Ard to keep an eye on William.

He wasn’t keeping his eye on the young man this Sunday morning; old Dipsy Runckle was. Hammer in one hand, kneeling down, Dipsy tapped the large wooden wheel of a newly built work cart.

William, on the other side of the cart, kneeling by the wheel, held his hand on the center of the wheel, the inside of which held the axle.

“Anything?” Dipsy asked.

“No.”

Dipsy tapped again harder. “Now?”

“No.”

“Switch with me,” Dipsy commanded, so the two men changed places and Dipsy now tapped the wheel center where William had been. “Anything?”

“No. Dipsy, what good does tapping do? This axle is solid, the wheel well full of grease. Spokes solid.”

“I got my ways and you don’t know shit.” Dipsy found most young people tedious and stupid.

William fumed but he shut up. Dipsy stood up, having performed the same ritual for the front axle and wheels, and he climbed into the cart. An eight-foot bed, while not overlong, could fool an inexperienced driver. Getting around any corner can be difficult depending on the road surface, and most roads were mud. The longer and heavier the vehicle, the more difficult the task.

Built for light hauling, this deep blue cart would see a great deal of use. On any farm much of the hauling involved lighter items: a few square bales, maybe a barrel or two of oats or wooden boxes of corn for the cook. Light wagons and carts worked every day on most farms, so a breakdown could be costly. Better to have a few smaller ones than one huge one.

Dipsy walked front to back, then again. Stopping in the middle, he jumped up and down. As his knees were shot, this was not a high jump but still his weight pounded the weakest part of the bed at the center.

“Solid.” The old man smiled.

William, leaning over the side of the cart, observed, “Should be, the time spent building it.”

“You can do something in a hurry or you can do it right.” Dipsy knelt down, running his ungloved fingers over the top of the sides. He moved up to sit in the driver’s seat, a butt-width plank with a backrest. Running his fingers over the top surfaces, he grunted. Ran them in the other direction, then leaned back against the backrest.

“Looks good.” William passed an opinion, which carried no weight with Dipsy.

“A fresh coat of paint makes anything look good. This will get used and used hard. No point making someone’s job harder by filling their fingers full of splinters. The one thing I can’t do is fashion an axle as good as the one in the Studebaker carts Mr. Finney bought.”

“Those people must have a big forge,” William remarked.

“Bet they do. It’s their business but we can come close.”

“Guess so.”

Dipsy continued sitting on the driver’s seat, pulling his gloves back on. “Mr. Studebaker figured out no one could use the number of carts Mr. Finney was buying.” He smiled. “Mr. Finney’s smart. He was buying carts to resell for more money. They put a stop to that. Mr. Finney was doing them a favor by my lights. I don’t know, I’m not a moneyman.”

“Why?”

“People bought a top cart, heard the Studebaker name. They stamped it on the undercarriage. Word gets out. People would go to the source. Anyway, Mr. Finney decided he could build carts, too, so this is our first. It will last.”

“Who’s bought it?”

“Rosemont.”

This was a farm three miles east of Royal Oak. Owned by Edward McBain, young, ambitious, he was expanding. McBain wanted everything that Mr. Finney had.

“Lots of cattle,” William laconically remarked.

“Mr. Finney will want this delivered tomorrow or next day. Weather might turn.” He slapped his hands on his thighs, no real slap due to his fingers. “It’s a good strong cart. Bet Mr. Finney gets more orders.”

“Right.” Evidencing scant interest, William, work finished, left, walking back to his cabin.

When Ard hired William, Ralston, and Sulli, William lied, claiming Sulli as his wife. Ralston was moved to the single men’s bunkhouse. Mr. Finney believed marriage a great benefit to a man. Husband and wife deserved privacy. However, if they ate with the other workers they paid six dollars a month instead of three dollars. As Sulli worked in the communal kitchen for Miss Frances, they paid five dollars, a bit of a discount for wonderful food.

Mr. Finney believed a well-fed worker was a better worker. The Irishman, fair to a fault, expected a good day’s work. He got it.

As William walked over the frozen ground, Martin and Shank, now on the Maryland side, observed everything. If the three runaways remained in Maryland, they would find them through questioning, observation, and studying the roads. The bounty hunters figured the three stayed on foot. If they intended to reach Philadelphia, they would need to pick up jobs, perhaps staying for months, especially in winter.

Enticing as Philadelphia was, so was a good job. Marylanders owned slaves, as did many people in the Original Thirteen, save Vermont. Pennsylvania, thanks to its Quaker roots, never encouraged the practice. But if a resident of the large state chose to own slaves, they were legally permitted. If shipowners carried slaves, they were also permitted.

Confident that the runaways had passed through this area, Martin and Shank felt they would soon pick up the trail. If the slaves had passed themselves off as freedmen, who would care unless a large reward was offered for their return?

The two threw wide their net. Little by little they would tighten it, then close it to strike like rattlesnakes.

Often a search would consume months. Every now and then the pursued would fall into their hands.

Finding simple lodging at a small inn in Doubs, they once again began their search.

Both Martin and Shank excelled at picking up and sifting bits of information, at finding a lead or hearing of an offhand comment. Greasing palms aided the process. They’d seen people turn on one another for two dollars.

Neither man held a high opinion of the human race.