It was suddenly too hot in the room. Her clothes felt tight. The air seemed heavy. Even to think of him was madness. He was a servant, a bound man. And yet, her father had offered to set him in trade. He’d never done that before. He was even playing chess with him, and there were only three or four men with whom he would do that. Possibly, just possibly, he might countenance a small flirtation, if it was no more than that. She smiled. Or if he thought it was no more.

  She twisted the thought this way and that, peering at it from all sides. It would have to be very discreet, certainly. None could be allowed to know she was involved with a servant. But if Justin should suspect, that should wipe away his complacency and his punctilio. Jealousy would transform him into a lover. Her face took on a satisfied, vulpine cast. And in the meanwhile, there would be Michael.

  8

  Michael spent the night in a restless half-sleep, just below the edge of consciousness, where dreams were known for dreams yet took on an air of bewildering reality. Columns of figures ran by with increasing rapidity. Six months trading. A year. Pounds. Shillings. Pence. And behind them, unbidden, violet eyes. A tiny Michael Fallon ran among the figures, shouting for the eyes to go away, trying to keep from falling into them and drowning, trying to keep from wanting to. He began to climb, up the figures, up. He had to get away. Suddenly the figures were stacked barrels of rice and indigo, barrels marked SHIP FOR FALLON. They shifted underfoot. The stacks began to collapse. And he was falling, falling forever into those violet eyes.

  He sat up with a start. Cold sweat ran down his body. It took a minute to realize he was in his room over the stables. It was light outside. He put his feet over the side of the bed. And he remembered the dream.

  It was insanity. The trade was fine, but not the girl. One thing had nothing to do with the other. Her father might well help him enter the trade, but he would not welcome attentions to his daughter. Far from it. He’d send for the constables to haul him away, and rightly so. The chasm was still there, between them, and if it might narrow in the future, it was impassable now. What matter that he felt cousin to a moonstruck calf?

  He sighed and got to his feet. There was water in the pitcher on the lowboy. He splashed some into the bowl to wash. She had her future planned. She would marry Justin Fourrier, the rich planter’s son of old Huguenot stock, not the struggling, impecunious Irishman. Not a bound man. His hand slammed into the wall, making the mirror dance. Justin Fourrier.

  Mr. Carver never required more than half a day on Saturday, unusual among the merchants in the city. Sometimes he didn’t even require that. This, the nineteenth of October, 1765, was one of those days. But there was work for Michael to do, work for himself. And it must be done before the mob moved against the paper.

  As Michael walked toward the bridge a strangeness about the street impressed itself on him. Except for the muffled bells of Saint Michael’s, there was an almost deadly quiet. To the last man passersby were on edge, nervous, as if waiting for something they feared. Even the gutter rats had lost their swagger of the past few months. With a start he realized that almost no women were abroad, save a few of the lowest sort. Something else was missing, as well. Uniforms. The soldiers were gone, not only the lone drunks, but the marching squads as well. There wasn’t a whiff of a redcoat anywhere.

  Hard by Saint Michael’s he stopped again. Behind the tall, white columns small knots of tradesmen whispered urgently, scanning the street for hostile ears. Across the way, at the State House, a slow stream of men went in. Each, watchful, wore a frown. None came out. Even the beef market had caught the fever. The usual loud haggling was muted; customers were few and hurried. The vultures that lined the roof of the market were restless today. Few scraps were being thrown out for them; they were hungry.

  Slowly Michael started on. Then he saw the gallows. Where Broad Street and Church Street met it stood, in the middle of the intersection, as tall as a two-story house. And on it hung a figure, swaying slightly in the breeze.

  His steps faltered. Hangings took place down at White Point, near the low-water mark. And there was no hanging scheduled. Oh, God. It couldn’t be the Liberty Boys. They couldn’t have hung some poor bastard.

  As Michael hurried closer he could make out a sign hanging around the figure’s neck. Stamp Collector, it said. That was impossible, he thought. Saxby was in England and Lloyd was holed up in Fort Johnson. Then, suddenly, he realized it wasn’t a man. It was a dummy. He heaved a sign of relief. A bundle of old clothes. An effigy. Or rather, three of them. The stamp collector was in the middle, with a devil on the right and a boot with a head stuck on it on the left. Across the bottom, in large letters, a sign said Liberty and No Stamp Act.

  Periodically Dillon’s spewed out men, mugs in hand, who laughed and toasted the gallows and laughed some more. Few of those scurrying past in the street seemed amused; they quickened their pace, eyes to the ground.

  Michael started as a hand touched his shoulder, his fists half clenching. It was a smiling Byrne. “Admiring our handiwork, are you now?”

  “Your work, you say? The Liberty Boys?”

  “Mine among others, Michael, lad. Mine among others.” He ignored the second question. His tense smile grew wider by the minute.

  “I’d not be admitting it, were I you. The magistrates will no doubt be wanting to clap the lot of you in irons. There’s nothing they’d like better than a public confession.”

  “Michael,” Byrne scoffed, “you’ve not been paying close attention to what’s happening. Half the magistrates are with us, and the other half don’t matter.” He shot a hand toward the scaffold. “That’s been standing there for hours. Where are your constables to tear it down? Tell me that, now.”

  Michael shook his head. “Waiting for you all to come out in the open, so they can hang you.”

  “They’ll have to hang the whole Assembly,” Christopher said in a patronizing tone. He started for Dillon’s, turning halfway there for one last crow. “The whole Assembly, lad.”

  Michael took a deep breath, and looked up at the gallows. All hell was about to break loose. No doubt of it. A fine time to be starting in trade.

  At the bridge and the warehouse, trade was just beginning to get under way again after the summer slowdown. The first of the year’s rice crop was now reaching Charlestown, and the sudden deluge of goods, outgoing and incoming, hadn’t yet been absorbed. The men still hustled about trying to catch up.

  He wasted no time finding Jepson, who was overseeing the lading of six ships tied to the wharf. “Has the Two Sisters finished loading yet?”

  “No si—No, it has not.”

  “Then load an extra three barrels of rice with Mr. Carver’s consignment.”

  “Three barrels?” The Scots burr thickened. “Three barrels?”

  “Yes, three barrels. Can’t you do it?”

  “Well, no, I mean, yes, I can. But I never heard of changing a shipment by only three barrels.”

  “Well, you’ve heard it now. And find Mr. Hollister for me. He’s usually around the wharves this time of day.”

  Jepson sniffed. “Aye. Find Mr. Hollister and load three whole barrels.”

  Michael climbed to his office. He took the wrapped packet of instructions for the Two Sisters’ captain from the desk and undid the string. He pulled one out and laid it on the desk. Proceeds from sixty tierces of rice to be reinvested in fine Bohea tea at the best price the captain could find. Carefully he copied it over again, adding three more barrels.

  Once it had been done he felt a queer excitement. It was begun. He took out a small ledger and opened it to the first page. His hand shook slightly as he dipped the pen. October 19, 1765. Three barrels rice. To Liverpool, England, on the Two Sisters. For a time he simply looked at the entry. The first.

  A rap came at the door. He slipped the ledger into a drawer. “Come in.”

  Peter Hollister pushed open the door and lumped his bulk down in a chair with a wheeze. “Jepson said you wanted to see me. Mr. Carver wants to buy, eh? Jepson’s burr was so strong all I could make out was three barrels, or what sounded like it. What got him so upset?”

  “Mr. Carver does want to buy,” Michael said carefully. “Three barrels of rice.”

  “Three barrels?” Except for the burr Hollister duplicated Jepson’s tone exactly. He peered at Michael over the tops of his spectacles. “How can I make a profit on three barrels?”

  Michael found it hard not to laugh. Hollister made his living as a middleman, buying from small planters who needed ready money but weren’t willing to hire transport down to Charlestown. Where merchants of note dealt in hundreds of barrels, or even thousands, Hollister sold perhaps fifty or sixty at a time. And for the prices he paid he could have made a profit giving it away.

  “Mr. Carver’s one of your best customers, perhaps your very best, for indigo and tobacco as well as rice.”

  “All the same, three barrels. Why I’d lose all my profit just on cartage to get it here. There’d have to be a premium over the going price.

  “It has to be first quality, mind you,” Michael said as if he hadn’t heard. “We want no seconds or thirds.”

  Hollister puffed up. “My rice is always first quality. All of it.”

  “We’ve been finding barrels of midlings, and even small rice, in what you bring lately.”

  “Impossible. I check every barrel myself.” The thought of Hollister heaving his fat around to check for quality made Michael’s mouth twitch. The same thought seemed to strike Hollister. “Well, most of them,” he admitted grudgingly.

  “We’ll not pay full market for seconds or thirds.”

  “I tell you I deliver first quality only. I guarantee it. And I won’t take a shilling less than the full market price.”

  “Very well, then,” Michael said as if conceding the point. He stuck his hand out. “Full market price it is.”

  Hollister grasped the outstretched hand with a sharp nod. “Done.” Suddenly it dawned on him that he’d forgotten all about the premium. He deflated in his chair. “You may be an Irishman, but I still say Carver got a Shylock when he got you.”

  “No need to be unpleasant,” Michael said mildly. “A glass of wine on the bargain?”

  “It’s probably the only profit I’ll make on this,” Hollister grumbled.

  Hollister took the offered glass, gulped the wine down, and held the glass out for more. Michael obligingly filled it again, then corked the bottle and put it away before the other drank it all.

  “You’ll have it here this afternoon, then?”

  “Umph. What? This afternoon? Why so quickly? There must be two or three thousand barrels in this warehouse right now.” He set the glass back on the desk and pushed it hopefully toward Michael.

  Michael picked it up and set it aside with his own, ignoring Hollister’s sigh. “I want it now. From the looks of things this morning the stamp trouble could blow up at any minute.”

  “Oh, it’ll be a rare show, all right,” Hollister said absently, his attention on the wine cabinet.

  “Rare show? They’ll be bringing the redcoats down from the barracks if they don’t watch out.”

  “Soldiers?” That brought the fat man’s attention round. “You don’t think the soldiers would actually come out?”

  Michael stared at him in surprise. “Perhaps, and perhaps not. I said it might.”

  Hollister rubbed the back of his hand over slack lips. “I’d better be going,” he muttered.

  “The rice. This afternoon?”

  “What? Oh, yes, yes. This afternoon.” He bolted out of his chair and waddled hurriedly down the stairs.

  Michael watched him leave from the window. From the way he kept rubbing at his mouth it was plain he wanted a drink in the worst way possible. Why did I have to mention soldiers, Michael thought. And why should Hollister be so afraid of them?

  Michael got out the bottle again and poured himself another glass. Let Hollister cringe. Michael Fallon was on his way. In a few short months his small stock of money would be doubled, then doubled again. There was nothing could stop him now.

  As long as he was there, he decided, he might as well work on the tangle Wynfrey had made. The first ledger he opened bore evidence of the previous clerk’s theft. He hesitated; made the correcting entries; and kept no separate record. There was nothing to be done about Wynfrey. He pressed on with the balancing, heedless of forenoon turning into sultry afternoon.

  “Last chance ’fore dark! Snappers! Groupers!”

  The fishmonger’s cry pulled him up out of the ledgers. It was growing dim outside, and he noticed that his eyes hurt from working in the fading light. The rumbles and thumps of the warehouse were stilled. He might well be the last man there. He’d worked through dinner, and if he didn’t hurry he might miss supper as well.

  Lost in his own thoughts about the price of tea in Liverpool, he was almost to Church Street before he realized he was forcing his way through an ever-thickening crowd.

  There were no merchants, he saw immediately, no planters. A few artisans dotted the crowd, men dressed well enough, but with printer’s ink on their hands or the smell of glue or woodshavings about them. The rest were the worst sort, dock idlers and gutter sweepings, layabouts and alley trash, sailors off ships in the harbor full of rum and itch, backcountry wagoneers passing around the product of their stills, men with hard, eager eyes. The gallows still stood in the intersection. Low murmurs filled the air.

  Then a half-dozen men, soberly dressed and respectable appearing, climbed over the gallows. Silence fell. They loosened ropes and eased down the figures, the scaffold creaking under their feet. The crowd parted slightly to let a six-horse team pull a wagon to the gallows, closing again behind it as it passed.

  Michael watched as the six, now in the wagon, set the figures up on poles. The Liberty and No Stamp Act banner was shifted next, set up high over the dummies. A palpable anticipation hung in the air. Michael started pushing back the way he had come.

  It was harder going back than going in. More people had arrived after him, and more were arriving every minute. Latecomers jostled for room as if afraid they might miss something. There was laughter in the crowd now, but laughter with an edge to it. They had the air of a crowd at a carnival, or at a hanging. He didn’t intend to stay long enough to see which it was. He pushed free of the press and hurried through the verge.

  “Hey, you!”

  In an instant a semicircle of half-crouching men formed in front of him, half grinning drunkenly, the other half deadly grim. He glanced over his shoulder, and there was another group behind him.

  A long-nosed man in a dirty coat, with a deep scar across his nose and cheek and the lower half of his left ear gone, pushed himself forward with a swagger. “And where might you be going in such a hurry, me fine swell? Huh?”

  Michael shifted for a firmer footing on the cobblestones and watched warily for the first sign of a rush. “I forgot some papers for my master,” he said firmly. “I was just going back for them.”

  Lop-ear spat. “Ain’t taking part in the festivities, eh?”

  “Seemed to be leaving in an awful hurry just to be going for some papers,” somebody in the pack shouted. “Maybe he don’t want to take part.”

  A shaven-headed hulk with the burn scars of a blacksmith on his forearms shook a heavy fist. “Let me squeeze the truth out of him.”

  “Maybe he’s a stamp collector.”

  Michael waited for someone to laugh, but no laugh came. Were they blind? They knew who the collectors were, and they knew what they looked like. They couldn’t be that drunk, but even the boozy grins faded into grim bleakness. They inched closer, like a hyena pack almost certain of its victim. Suddenly he saw Hollister pass by with a bottle in his hand.

  “He knows me,” he said quickly. “Hollister! Peter Hollister!”

  One of the men caught the fat trader by the arm and pulled him into the circle. “Do you know this man?” Lop-ear asked.

  Hollister peered at Michael blearily. Closing one eye, he pushed his head forward as if to get a better look, then nodded vigorously. “Know him. Wants it all put down with troops. Soldiers in the city. Heard him.” He nodded again, and nearly fell. Lop-ear grabbed him to keep him up.

  “He’s in his cups,” Michael said. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Look at him.”

  The pack shuffled closer. “You picked him,” Lop-ear snarled. Michael set himself.

  Suddenly there was a break in the circle, and Christopher Byrne forced his way through. He threw himself in front of Michael and whirled to face the motley crew. “Easy, lads, easy. You all know me.”

  “We know you, Byrne,” Lop-ear growled, “but he’s a stamp collector.”

  “A stamp collector!” Christopher turned and looked Michael over from head to foot. He threw back his head and laughed. “A stamp collector dressed like that? Since when would they be making a stamp collector out of a clerk?” The laugh cut off short. He glared at the lop-eared man.

  Lop-ear shifted uncomfortably. “Well, he wants us should be put down with troops. Hollister here heard him say it.”

  Christopher rounded on the fat drunk. “Did you now, Hollister? Can’t you men see he’s too drunk to recognize his own mother?” An edge of doubt appeared in some of the faces, a thin one. “You there, Hollister.” The trader looked round, blearily, until one of the circle turned him in the right direction. “Do you know me, Hollister?”

  Hollister stared at him unsteadily. “I, I do.” He blinked uncertainly and looked around as if for a clue. Finally he took a deep breath and straightened with saturated dignity. “You are Isaac Morton, the silversmith.”

  Hoots of laughter ran around the circle. Christopher threw back his head and roared. Even Michael had to smile. “Isaac Morton, is it?” Christopher crowed. “And him no more than five foot three and bald as a baby’s bottom, to boot.”