Furmidable Foes

18

December 19, 1787

Wednesday

“A bit of cheer.” Shank held up a brown bottle at the main stable at Royal Oak. “Lift your spirits.”

Martin, standing in the back of an old wagon bought with Maureen’s down payment, beamed. “Here, gentlemen, a sip to tantalize your taste buds.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Ard smiled broadly, taking the bottle from Martin’s outstretched hand. “Great Day!”

“Your eyes are watering,” Dipsy howled at him, grabbing the bottle. “A real man can take a drink.”

So he did and about fell over coughing, which made the other men roar.

“Gentlemen, these are potent waters.” Shank grinned as one by one the male workers at Royal Oak crept into the main stable.

Ard, clearing his throat, wiping his eyes, said, “Boys, we can’t all be in here at the same time. Those of you with brave hearts, pay up and go back to work. Don’t want Mr. Finney thinking we’re slacking, especially with Christmas up ahead.”

A murmur passed through the men as one by one they fished coins out of their pockets to pay for the bottle, not cheap at three dollars for a full bottle and half that for a half bottle but, oh, so desirable. Now, where to hide the bottle? Can’t let the wife find it if a man had a wife. And the bunkhouse, your best buddy would drain your bottle dry if he found it. You’d find him passed out or dead.

Excited talk filled the air while the horses ignored it all.

William, all braggadocio, handed over his money.

Martin lifted a bottle from the banked hay. “Here you go, young man. Best country waters in the States.”

William uncorked his bottle, sniffed, took a swig. He was smart enough to take a small sip, but that still packed a punch.

Ralston, curious, tried to sniff William’s bottle, but the slightly taller William cuffed him.

“Young fellow, come here. A small, restorative sip. A man’s mouth can only get but so dry.” Martin beckoned to Ralston.

Ralston gingerly sipped the contents, gulped, stood still, rooted to the spot. Then he passed the bottle back up to Martin in his green, broad-brimmed hat with a jaunty pheasant feather in it. Naturally, Ralston didn’t want to appear weak or unmanly so he, too, fished out the requisite amount, a bit of money for him, but he did it.

“Hurry up, boys. Back to work,” Ard barked, then enjoyed a tiny drop of the magic.

Giggles alerted the men that women approached.

Miss Frances strode in. “And what might you be selling?”

Shank nodded to her, respectful to a female, grabbed the bottle from Martin, and reached out to her. “Madam, these are very strong waters but you might wish a small lift.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, she tilted the bottle to her lips, took a swig—not a small one—licked her lips, and handed it back.

“Madam,” Martin exclaimed, “you possess a formidable palate.” He figured no one would know that “palate” wasn’t the correct word but it sounded high-class.

Glaring at him, she put one hand on her hip. “I’m Irish. We all possess formidable palates.” She put the accent on the “p.”

Sensing he had the men over a barrel, for how could they be shown up by a woman, Martin leaned down, smiled big. “Merry Christmas, you Alainn Bean-vassal.”

She stepped up on the side step, grasping the bottle he had given her, kissed him on the cheek, and stepped down, staring at all the workers. “Never miss the chance to kiss a handsome man.”

He had called her “beautiful lady” in Celtic. She rarely heard her native tongue anymore.

The men rushed the cart, coins jingling in hands as Miss Frances turned to leave the barn. One kitchen worker had snuck out and Sulli did, too, peeking into the barn.

Shank noted Sulli as he had noted William and Ralston.

Shank and Martin sold a lot of strong spirits made with crystal clear mountain water. Given their product, they found ways to get onto farms or into homes, loosen tongues. They had beads, children’s toys, a few small items of silver like thimbles, for every woman sewed. A silver thimble presented by one’s husband, son, or beau delighted a lady and a fellow could afford it. Silver impressed. Gold even more, obviously.

Dipsy, two swigs in his gullet, walked up to Shank. “If you two peddlers want a cart that will outlive you both, we make them here. Noticed yours is rickety.”

“ ’Tis,” Shank agreed.

As the people filtered out, Dipsy persisted. “Leave your horse and cart here for a minute. Follow me.”

The two, eager to observe all they could at Royal Oak, followed the older fellow to the small but well-organized shop where the blue cart stood waiting to be delivered to Rosemont. He held out his arm in an expansive gesture. “The best.”

Shank and Martin circled the cart. Martin knelt down to look under the bottom. “Heavy axle.”

“Takes an elephant to break it,” Dipsy bragged.

Shank knelt down, too. “You know, sir, you might be right. What would a wagon like this run?”

“This one is sold but I’ll see if Mr. Finney would take an order or sell one we use on the farm, at a lower rate, of course.”

“What would this cost new?” Martin stood up.

“One hundred and fifty dollars. Two hundred if you want a ten-foot bed and you want special paint. We can make any length you want. Our axles will hold the weight.”

“Let us consider this, Mr.?”

“Dipsy Runckle. Call me Dipsy.”

Martin, rubbing his chin, said, “Mr. Runckle, we travel. Many people would see this piece of handiwork. We could sell some. Actually, I believe we could sell a lot. If you lower the price for us, we might be able to swing it.”

Dipsy crossed his arms over his chest. “Mr. Finney can be a hard man, but I’ll talk to him. He’s a shrewd businessman and would be able to consider your offer.”

“And what would you like, Mr. Runckle?” Martin smiled.

“We can discuss that if I convince Mr. Finney.”

Once back out on the road, Martin and Shank drove five miles to their lodgings. The horse, a decent enough half-breed, trotted, for the cold enlivened her.

“Fit the description.”

“Did.” Shank agreed. “Girl is a pretty thing.”

“Is.” Martin felt the heavy coins in his pocket. “You know we made over sixty dollars. If our line of work ever fails, I think we have a new one.”

Shank laughed. “Ever notice how people close to mountains make good liquor? When we met with Mrs. Holloway, I figured there had to be some fine distillers in the region.”

“You think ahead.” Martin smiled at him, holding the reins loosely.

“If we can lure those three off Royal Oak, our job will be easier. If not, we’d better be careful. The owner is a powerful man. His people don’t talk.”

“We’re retrieving stolen property.”

“Well, Martin, they aren’t stolen exactly, but Royal Oak is tight, well run. Don’t think anyone would turn on anyone else.”

“You’re right. My mind’s running ahead. Mostly, I’m glad we didn’t need to keep fishing throughout Maryland and wind up in Philadelphia.” Shank grunted.

“Yes, but they’re thirsty there, too.”

“Ha!”

“We have a way back onto the farm. To buy a wagon.” Martin put the reins in one hand, placing the other in his pocket. “But that doesn’t help us grab those two. The third isn’t Mrs. Holloway’s. I still think we should sell him.”

“We might not be able to take them all at once. The two fellows are young. They’ll be quick. They don’t look that strong but they will be quick.” Shank studied his quarry as would any hunter.

“True.”

“Martin, look up.” Shank grimaced.

Martin did as a twirling snowflake lazed down onto the mare’s mane. “We’re not far, thank heaven.”

“No. Not a bad little barn the inn has, but I’m thinking about the roads. Be good if we could bag our quarry while people are occupied with their dinners and celebrations. Not too many would be in our way. If we can find out the Royal Oak schedule, that will help.”

Martin nodded, clucked as the mare increased her trot. She didn’t want to be out in the snow in her traces either. “We’ve got rope, gags. We need to cut out each fellow, then grab him.”

Shank said, “Well, if we can lure them off the farm, ought to be easy. It’s the girl I’m worried about. Be hard to get at her. She’s not going to be working outside.”

“Oh now, Shank, where there’s a will there’s a way.”