Whiskers In The Dark

30

October 22, 1787

Monday

Virginia creeper winding up a pin oak outside Ewing’s library window pulsated deep flaming red. Fall arrived in fine raiment. However, Ewing slapped his desk with his right hand while Catherine pulled out the accounting books, opening them on her side of the desk.

“It galls me.”

“Yes, Father.”

“We are reorganizing as a nation; you read the Constitution as well as I have, and yet there is nothing in there about postal service. How can we be an organized nation without good service? I am tired of paying these high prices for mail. The Romans could do it. Why can’t we?”

“I don’t know, Father.”

“And furthermore, I reread the papers sent me from Philadelphia. What is to prevent Congress from instituting a state religion down the road? The French still have no toleration for Protestants. And that is in writing, the intolerance, I mean. And I guarantee you one other thing.” He picked up the handwritten copy of the Constitution sent to him by Roger Davis. “Nothing in here about postage costs for members of Congress. I tell you they will get all this for free and we will pay for it. I know it.”

“Father.” Her voice was soothing and cool. “If our new representatives enumerate their privileges, they may not be representatives for long. Better to keep their powers general”—she pointed to the papers—“than to list them.”

He stopped smacking the desk. “Quite so.”

She closed the account book to begin sorting the mail. Ewing, still irritated, had paid little attention to the mail other than the cost, paid by the recipient, which also irritated him. If someone wanted to cost you money, all they had to do was send heavy mail, heavy items.

“Father, here.” She stood up and walked behind the desk, handing him a quite fat letter, the handwriting serviceable but not beautiful.

He slit the letter open with a long, narrow, silver letter opener.

“Well.” He read the first heavy letter.

“Well what?”

“From Gabriel LeSeur. He writes that one-quarter of what he owes me for the tobacco has been sent to England. I can draw on it there as it is in my account in London.” He pulled out the second paper. “A rather detailed account of sales. Now why would he send me that?” Ewing handed the accounting to Catherine.

She read the odd letter, citing half a hog’s head to DeJarnette Tobacco Shop on the right bank of the river, near the former Philip Augustus’s wall. “This is odd and the paper feels a bit odd.” She held it up to the light. “Father, hand me your letter opener.”

He did so and she carefully slit the paper lengthwise, exposing a parchment, tissue-paper thin.

Seeing this, Ewing now stood up to walk over to his daughter. “What is this?”

“It is for you.” She carefully handed him the delicate paper.

He gave it back. “Your French is better than mine.”

Catherine slowly read the letter then read it aloud. The lines were small, jammed together, the handwriting cramped.

“My Dear Monsieur Ewing, I trust you are in good health. We have done business for close to two decades. It pains me to inform you I do not know if I will be able to pay for the rest of the tobacco. I also ask your forgiveness for I write plainly, not being a man as educated as yourself. Things are uncertain here. The Crown will not pay its bills. The Crown has no money, truthfully. This has given rise to unscrupulous people who order goods without a desire to pay. If one presses, they run to an advocate. My only comfort is I doubt the lawyers will be paid either, although in my darker moments I believe the lawyers are forcing the banks, the church, and the Crown into the abyss. Calonne has fled to England, accused of hiding the state of the nation’s finances from the King. We now endure Brienne hovering over the Treasury like a vulture. The Queen has gotten her way. My Dear Ewing, there is no money. My wife declares she has never seen events at such a pass, but I tell her we French excel at argument. The ship will right itself. She begs me to leave Paris. She is a good woman but given to women’s foolish fears. Again, forgive me.”

“It’s worse than Baron Necker has written.” Ewing exhaled.

“Written by a man outside of government, Monsieur LeSeur clarifies the difficulties in a manner easier to understand. At least for me.”

He grunted. “For me as well.” He ran his hand across his forehead for a moment. “He will not be the only merchant to fail us, but I believe he is the only one who will give us warning.”

“He is an honest man. Perhaps he should listen to his wife.” Catherine reread the letter. “What will happen if the Crown does not solve this problem? What will happen when men like LeSeur cannot pay their bills inside of France? And what happens if the bakers must pay more for flour and then the people must pay more for bread? Look what happened to us when the Articles of Confederation failed. The states were at one another’s throats. Granted, we don’t have a king or a hereditary nobility, but people must be able to make a living.”

He listened to his oldest daughter, then spoke. “You have an old head on young shoulders.”

“You flatter me, Father. My head is filled with the history drummed into it by those costly teachers you and Mother provided. Whether it was ancient Athens, Rome, or now Paris, whoever is in power must tend to the people.”

“Do you think the states will ratify the Constitution? Since I paid for those history lessons, what do you think?” He teased her a bit.

“After endless talk, yes.” She smiled at him. “It’s better than what we had before. Who knows, Father, it might work.”

His gaze again fell upon the accounting. “I don’t know how to address this loss or the ones sure to follow.”

“We can cut and plane more timber. People will build. Times are better. Of course, this will not address all of our losses, but it will be a start.”

“Perhaps.” He sighed, then changed the subject. “I heard another slave ran away at Big Rawly and Maureen’s lady’s maid was severely punished.”

Catherine thought to herself Roger must have told him. News flies. She reminded herself to be constantly vigilant about Marcia. Ewing believed the story about Marcia’s illegitimate birth. He did not know Ailee was buried on Cloverfields. Better this secret be buried with her.

“Yes,” Catherine simply replied.

“I can understand Maureen’s anger. I’m angry at Ralston. But she is unusually harsh.” He breathed in. “Her Caribbean upbringing, I’m certain of it.”

“The thing is, I don’t think her beating anyone does any good. It just makes everyone else watchful, ready to run if the opportunity presents itself.”

“Do you think any more of our people will run?”

“Ralston, well, I think he was a special case. He broke bad. He was always jealous of Jeddie, but the thieving, the exaggerated interest in women. The only thing I can think of is he broke bad.”

“Maybe he should have married young.” Ewing found this reasonable.

“Getting married and staying married are two different things.” She shrugged.

—

Marriage didn’t enter Ralston’s mind. Nor did it enter William’s, despite his lie that Sulli was his wife.

Mr. Finney hired them. Ard kept William and Sulli in the cabin, shifting Ralston to a bunkhouse with the other single men.

Ralston was glad to be away from the two of them. He groomed the horses, fed them, was watched by Ard, who was not yet ready to let him or William mount up.

Walking a gelding back into the stable, Ralston heard wheels on the drive. He put the fellow in his stall, walked outside, coolish, to behold a large cart painted a bright yellow now pulling up at the stable entrance.

Two men sat up top. One was Moses and, before Ralston could hide, Moses spied him.

“Ralston.”

Ralston turned. “Yes, sir.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Finney has hired me.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I ran away.”

Moses then asked, “Have you seen my father?”

“Before the leaves fell but the color was changing. He looked well.”

Moses grinned. “Good. Good.”

“What are you doing here?” Ralston asked the question back to Moses.

“Sam and I, we work together, are delivering a cart Mr. Finney bought from Mr. Studebaker. I work for Captain Graves but he lets me work with Mr. Studebaker if he doesn’t have anything for me. Man builds a solid cart and his axles rarely break.”

“Does he paint them all yellow?”

Moses laughed. “No. That was Mr. Finney’s special request. Makes it harder to steal, I would think.”

Ard was walking toward them, Sam with him.

“I better get back to work.” Ralston thought for a moment. “Did you know Sheba ran off with a fortune in pearls?”

“No.” Moses’s eyes widened. “She had a low cunning.”

“I only saw her once or twice, but people would talk about her. Said she knew all the Mistress’s secrets.” Ralston left to fetch another gelding.

Ralston didn’t know that Moses and Ailee had hidden at Cloverfields. Because of working with the horses, he had seen Moses at Big Rawly working with his father, DoRe. But without knowing what, Ralston suspected something was under wraps when Father Gabe and Bettina kept disappearing at night, Bettina carrying baskets of food.

Moses and Sam had been followed by another cart, one with a canvas top stretched over four supports. This had canvas sides, too, so the three men could sleep inside, Moses, Sam, and the other driver. It was of ingenious construction.

Ard carefully studied this. He would draw it later, presenting it to Mr. Finney as his own idea. Ralston watched Ard watching. He realized if he worked with this fellow, helped him along, he, too, might benefit.

Moses, swaying in the makeshift carriage, would have two days to wonder why Ralston ran away from Cloverfields and how he wound up at Royal Oak. He was happy to hear about his father. It had never occurred to him that his path would cross Ralston’s now or in the future.