On the Hussar only two of the buyers were left. They stood on deck, sweating in spite of the cool breeze down the bay, eyeing each other suspiciously. The captain watched them impassively, but Henning, the mate, seemed excited. They must be getting close to a final price, Michael thought, and hurried below to hide the tarred bundle.

  As he stepped back on deck one of the buyers said, “One moidore the quintal,” in a slow, thick accent.

  A moidore! God’s name, that was nearly ten pounds currency. Before he could move the second buyer said, “Six moidores the barrel,” and mopped the sweat on his thin face. The other exploded at him in a high-pitched tirade that even Henning couldn’t follow. In seconds they were toe to toe, yelling in each other’s faces, waving their arms around so as to endanger anyone who came too close. The first man broke away and said, “Seven moidores.”

  Seven moidores! That was nearly seventy pounds a barrel. Over double the best Michael could have hoped for. He turned to Captain Barker. “Why, in God’s name? Rice can’t be in that short a supply.”

  “But it is,” Henning broke in. “Rice and anything else you can eat. Didn’t you hear it ashore? The crops failed in Germany. The whole Continent’s running scared from a famine.”

  Michael began to laugh, and the captain and mate joined in. Lord, the irony of it. People were afraid of starving, and for that he’d get all he hoped for and more. He could pay the loan on this ship, and have his reserve. He could build that house in Charlestown for Elizabeth.

  The fat buyer waddled up. “Other one go. I buy now, yes please.”

  “You buy now, yes indeed,” Michael laughed. “Come below and we’ll be signing the papers. Captain Barker, would you be good enough to go ashore and find some Madeira at a reasonable price? I want to sail for London as soon as we can.”

  “London! Plan was Bristol.”

  “Well, it’s London now.” He grimaced. Franklin was in London. He could get rid of that packet quickly and safely. He hoped.

  The Thames quayside was busy, as usual, and the river stank worse than the Tagus, but none of that had Michael’s attention. The customs had come on board before the last hawser was around a bollard on the quay. They poked into every corner, certain that any vessel owned by those wretched colonials must be smuggling.

  Finally they turned to settle the duties on the casks of Madeira cramming the hold. Then another argument arose. The duty on the wine was seven pounds sterling in the ton. Small enough, but the excisemen insisted that each cask must weigh two or three times what was listed on the manifest. Barker and Henning took turns trying to wear down the customs men’s obstinacy while Michael watched impotently. Only the captain and mate had authority to deal.

  “I say there, is this the Hussar, from Charlestown in South Carolina?”

  The two young men picking their way up the gangplank made Michael stare. They wore suits of brocade, one in orange, the other a bright lavender, with matching tricorns trimmed in white fir, and each with enough lace for two men. Their faces were partially hidden behind their pomanders but they seemed familiar in some way.

  They had reached the ladder to the quarterdeck and were waiting for him to speak. “This is the Hussar. I’m her owner, Michael Fallon. What can I do for you?”

  “Fallon?” said the one in orange. “Michael Fallon of Charlestown? You must be the man who had that set-to with Justin some years back. I’d have given a guinea to see that. Stab me, I would. I’m Louis Fourrier, and this is my brother, Henri. We want passage back to Charlestown.”

  That was why they looked familiar. Justin at twenty, perhaps, but smaller, and with the meanness gone, that was what they looked like. “I’m certain we can arrange something,” he said slowly. “Perhaps you’d like to come below. Those excisemen may be reluctant to let you leave for fear you’d smuggle some dust off.”

  They turned as one to look at the captain and the still squabbling customs men, than at each other. “Capital suggestion, Mr. Fallon,” Louis said. He flipped open an enameled snuffbox with a practiced twist of the wrist and extended it with a questioning look. Michael shook his head, and they occupied themselves as they followed him below with the ritual of sniffing a pinch up each nostril, then sneezing prodigiously into lace handkerchiefs.

  As Michael set out wine glasses, Louis spoke again. “I fear we owe you an explanation, Mr. Fallon, for what may seem a disgraceful lack of family feeling.” Henri nodded. “You see, there are a good ten years between Justin and ourselves, and there was never any brotherly interest on his part. The devil spit me if he ever noticed us except to cuff us aside if we got in his way. And when we got too big for that we were shipped off to the dungeons of Oxford.”

  “He never cuffed Brielle,” Henri piped up. “That’s Gabrielle, our younger sister.”

  Michael hurried away from more familial revelations. “Oxford, do you say? Going into the law?”

  Henri and Louis glanced at each other and sighed. “We were to be admitted to the Inns of the Court later this year.”

  “The Middle Temple,” Henri added.

  “But Chaplain Ames never did get over finding a horse in his bed, falling down drunk on his best brandy.”

  “I think he minded the horse less than the brandy.”

  “Of course, he never did prove it was us.”

  “But he did have suspicions.”

  Michael stared at them in amazement. One took up the remark of the other so smoothly you could barely tell when one stopped and the other began. “Are you saying they gave you the boot?” he asked, and burst out laughing in spite of himself.

  “Not for that,” Louis said. “Not for pranks. No, it was the copies of David Hume in our digs, and worse, Rousseau and Voltaire. Might not have been so bad, but we’d had a bottle or so too many, and argued we had a right to read them. Hell, we said Voltaire and the rest were right. That’s what did it.”

  “Might have been dunking the proctor in the rain barrel.”

  “Not at all, Henri. That was because he said it was a proven fact all colonials were bastards. Different thing altogether. Couldn’t allow that, even if he was a proctor. You can see that, can’t you, Mr. Fallon?”

  “I can that.” He was beginning to like these two. How could anyone have the Fourrier blood, yet be so unlike Justin?

  Barker stuck his head in the door. “Excisemen are gone. We only paid half again as much as was due. Bah!” He withdrew with a grimace, and the three men found themselves all trying not to laugh.

  “Listen,” Michael said, “I intend sailing within the week. There’s no reason for you to pay a landlord for that time, if you don’t mind a little cramping. Move your things aboard the Hussar.”

  “Well, the gentleman we’re staying with lets us stay gratis,” Louis said, “but I doubt he’d object to our leaving.”

  “Yes, Dr. Franklin thinks we lack sensibilities.”

  It took an effort for Michael to finish rising smoothly.

  “Dr. Franklin?”

  “Benjamin Franklin,” Henri said. “Surely you know of him. He’s the most famous man in England, some say in the whole world.”

  “Yes, I know of Dr. Franklin.” He hesitated, then swiftly dug out the packet from Lisbon. “In fact, I’d like to walk with you, if you have no objections. I’d like to met the great man in person.”

  The streets of London were unbelievably dirty. Grime. Offal. Filth. It was everywhere, in the streets, on the buildings, on the people. As they stepped over and around piles of garbage, Michael wished for one of the pomander balls that the Fourriers kept tight to their noses. Once away from the river, the garbage was gone, the smell less, but the dirt was still there. It’d been in Lisbon, too, but that was different. Lisbon was foreign. London was as much a part of him as Dublin. Now it was foreign, too.

  That came as a start. He’d changed in America, in Charlestown. There were ragged people there, too, and dirt in plenty, but it was the dirt of a day, with the feel that a man could wash it off and go where he would. These men had the grime of centuries ground into their faces, inherited from their fathers, to be passed on to their sons. The Old World, with old ways, would go on forever, unchanging, with its people trapped inside.

  Glumness settled on him at the thought. Not even Henri and Louis’s high spirits made any impression, so that when they reached the house they were glad to lead him to the study and hurry away to their rooms. Michael tapped on the door, and a murmured voice bade him enter.

  Benjamin Franklin stood in the middle of the room with a book under his arm, his finger marking the place. He was a jowly man, with a large nose and an extra chin, in his middle sixties. Michael had heard much of his plain dress, and expected something on the order of Quaker or Puritan garb, but Franklin’s suit was of rust-colored velvet. He was plain, it seemed, only in contrast to the rainbow around him.

  Franklin looked at him questioningly. His eyes were clear and keen. “Can I help you, young man? I don’t believe I know you.”

  “My name is Michael Fallon, Dr. Franklin.” He held out the packet. “I was asked to bring you this. From Lisbon.”

  Franklin turned the packet in his hand, then set both it and the book on his desk. “Would you care for some wine, Mr. Fallon, is it? Irish. Delightful place, Ireland. I was there for a time last year, and I mean to go again.”

  “No, thank you, sir. I only came to deliver that thing. And I’m American now. I’m sailing back to Charlestown within the week. The two young Fourriers will be sailing with me.”

  “Yes, the Fourriers. Right-thinking lads, but with far too much liking for the frivolous. Charlestown. As hot for American liberties as any in the colonies, but a bit inclined to let their passions sweep them along. I had an interest in a newspaper there, once. Perhaps you know the owner, Mr. Peter Timothy.”

  “I’ve met him, sir.” Damn it all, he should leave now. But he couldn’t help glancing at the packet.

  Franklin smiled. “You’re wondering what’s in there, aren’t you? And yet you brought it to me unopened. What exactly do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know.” He frowned and burst out with it. “Seeing as it’s from the French, I’m beginning to fear it’s to do with rebellion.”

  “Rebellion? Lord, no, man. You certainly are Charlestown, aren’t you? You’ve been listening to Christopher Gadsden is what you’ve been doing. He and Sam Adams are the only two I know of who’d risk such a fool thing.”

  “But can the turmoil be settled short of it, sir? Perhaps if William Pitt is called to form another government. He has respect, here and in America, and he’s a proper regard for our rights.”

  “There are two reasons why Pitt will not return to power, Mr. Fallon. The first is that day by day he grows more infirm and more eccentric. He’s aware of his diminished abilities. Witness that in the last administration he formed, he would only accept the position of lord privy seal, more ceremonial than anything else.”

  “And the other, sir?”

  Franklin smiled sadly. “George the Third does not share your respect for him. William Pitt is a man of integrity and courage, not afraid to say what he believes is right. He’s opposed the King on other matters long before his opposition over America. The King hates him for that crime, and for the worse crime of being so often right in his opposition. He would as soon call the devil to form a government as call Pitt. I’m afraid a peaceful solution must be realized without his help. But what you brought may be of some aid.”

  “What I brought,” Michael said slowly. “I realize, sir, I don’t have any right to ask what’s in that packet. But I can’t help being curious.”

  “You deserve to know, Mr. Fallon. It contains opinions. The opinions of prominent men in Spain and Portugal on American events, and their opinions should this thing happen, or that thing. All sent courtesy of the French, who hope, of course, to make use of our troubles for their own gain. They try to use us; we try to use them. It is called diplomacy. If this letter were read in Parliament, there might be cries of shame, but that wouldn’t make it treason. Only shameful diplomacy.”

  “This diplomacy, if you’ll pardon me, is a little too sly to be comfortable.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Franklin laughed. “It is sly. I hope we can rely on slyness, and not have to resort to direct action. Here are your two passengers now. Come in, Louis, Henri.”

  “Has he explained electricity to you yet?” Louis asked.

  “Tried with us,” Henri said. “Tried lots of times, but it never seemed to sink in.”

  “I fear your talents lie in other directions,” Franklin said dryly.

  “He means he couldn’t beat it into us with a stick,” Louis laughed. “Good-bye, Dr. Franklin. It’s been good of you to put up with us.”

  “I’m always ready to help a countryman, Louis. If there’s time before you sail, come back to see me before you leave. You, too, Mr. Fallon. I’d like to hear first hand how things are going in the southern colonies.”

  Michael nodded. Yes, he’d make a point to return. “I’d like that, Dr. Franklin. Now can you be telling me, where would a man be buying a present for his bride?”

  16

  Hussar made the Charlestown Bar shortly after dawn on the eighteenth of May, 1771, and by nine, was snugly tied to Carver’s Bridge. Saying good-bye to the Fourriers at the gangway, Michael never noticed the starts when the men on the wharf heard the name, nor did he see their intent eyes. One or two opened their mouths, as he hurried past, bundles under his arm. There was a Spanish shawl, and an ivory comb for her hair. He had a music box that played ten tunes of the sort that made her laugh, and in his pocket, a wedding ring by the finest jeweler in London.

  Christopher Byrne was seated on a box near the street, the reins of his horse in his hand. As Michael approached he rose dolefully. “Michael, I—”

  “Have you seen my carriage, Christopher? I thought Hussar would be spotted coming up the harbor, and they’d have word to come for me.”

  “I haven’t seen them, Michael. Listen, I must tell you—”

  “I’ve no time for it, lad. Sure and you don’t mind if I borrow your horse.” He snatched the reins from Byrne and vaulted one-handed into the saddle without spilling a package. “I’m on my way to see my bride,” he shouted, and booted the horse in the ribs.

  “No! Michael, wait! Michael!” Christopher watched the rider forcing his way though traffic and suddenly kicked at the box he’d sat on. “Damn all women! Damn them all to hell!”

  Michael left the horse standing in Carver’s carriage path and ran up the steps two at a time. When Seth opened the door he grabbed him.

  “Run, man. Run. Tell her I’m here. Tell her I swam the last ten miles towing the ship behind me to get here faster. Well? Go! Go!”

  Seth wet his lips and swallowed, “I, I’ll tell Mr. Carver you’re here, sir.”

  Michael watched him disappear up the stairs. What ailed the old butler? Ah, it didn’t matter. In a minute he’d have Elizabeth in his arms. Inside of a month they’d be man and wife.

  Mr. Carver came slowly down the stairs, silently took Michael by the arm, and led him into the study. He looked far older. Gray-faced, too.

  “I came to see Elizabeth, sir. First thing from the ship.”

  Carver splashed a glass full of brandy to the brim. “Here, drink this down.”

  Michael stared at the glass, the packages tumbling from his grasp. “Oh, God! She’s not hurt? Tell me she’s not dead. God, tell me she’s not dead.”

  “She’s not dead, Michael. She’s alive and well.” The old man seemed close to tears. “Damn it all! There’s no easy way to tell you. She’s married to Justin Fourrier.”

  “That’s a hell of a joke.” His voice sounded hollow in his own ears.

  “It’s no joke. I wish it was. She’s at Les Chenes right now. She’s—she’s going to have his baby.”

  Michael didn’t realize he was moving until his back hit the door. Carver was following, saying something, but he didn’t hear. He just turned and ran. He vaulted over the veranda railing, fell. He grabbed a branch, broken by his fall, leaped to the saddle, and slashed it down like a whip. The horse burst into the street scattering pedestrians like quail. Many others fled as he headed north, peddlers jumping aside with a curse and a raised fist, carriages lumbering to safety while the passengers goggled. North, along the Ashley, to the plantation there, to Les Chenes.

  The sun was rising toward the vertical as he galloped up the oak-lined carriage drive. A slave ran out to take his panting horse, and stared in amazement as he began pounding on the door.

  “Elizabeth! Where are you, Elizabeth?”

  A butler opened the door, his black hands shaking. “I, I’m sorry, sir. The Fourrier gentlemen not to home.”

  Michael pushed past into the hall. “I want to see Eliza—” His jaw tightened. “I want to see Mrs. Fourrier.”

  “Sir, I have orders—”

  Michael rounded on him. “You tell her, damn your hide. You tell her I’m here. Now! Go!”

  The slave took one look at Michael’s eyes, and ran up the stairs. Michael shook his head. Damn, but he needed a drink. Fourrier’s study must be around there somewhere. The first door was the drawing room. At the second he smiled and went in.

  He started for the decanters with a bitter grin. If Fourrier was going to steal his woman, he couldn’t complain if Fallon stole his whiskey. Before he reached them his step faltered. On the wall, at the end of a line of miniatures of women, was Elizabeth. He took the ivory oval down as gently as if it were the woman herself. It fit neatly in the palm of his hand. But it didn’t show half her beauty, he thought. Oh, damn. Why, Elizabeth?

  Someone coughed behind him, and he slipped the miniature into his pocket and turned. Samantha stood warily in the door. When he stepped toward her she took two quick steps back.

  “Where’s your mistress?”

  “She send me to say—” She checked to see that she had a clear path out the door. “She send me to say she don’t want to see you, not now, not never. She won’t talk to you, she won’t even look at you. She don’t even want you to mention her name.”