Franklin’s face grew somber as he handed Michael a glass. “Your name was never spoken in my presence, Mr. Fallon. We have, in the cant, a rum lot here. I play the part of a randy goat, if it is playing, for the cause. Arthur Lee works to feather his own nest, and for little else. I’ve suspicions as to what Silas Deane works for, but even if I could prove them, he’s well padded by his friends in Congress.”

  “We’ve more than a few whose only good is friends in Congress,” Michael said, thinking of Charles Lee. “I sometimes wonder if we’ll ever get what we were after.”

  “It’s the way of all nations, and has been for all time, though here and there it’s disguised a bit. Very likely it will be in the future as well, even in our nation.”

  “Do you wish for an end to it, sir, a reconciliation? I recall at one time you hoped for a peaceful solution.”

  “We are committed, and have been since the day your Edward Rutledge, John Adams, and I left our talks with General Howe on discovering that he was empowered to talk, but not to negotiate.” He sighed sadly and gulped the last of his brandy. “I grow maudlin with the years. You said it was important to see me. What is it?”

  Michael quickly put the letter and the despatch on the table by Franklin. “These, sir. Neither means much by itself, nor maybe even together, but if you dig out the right parts—”

  Franklin scrutinized the despatch. “Burgoyne, hmm? I’ve heard that name before. Why don’t you summarize for me, since you’ve already done the digging out.”

  “The despatch says a General John Burgoyne is being sent to take the command of British Army forces in Canada. No surprise. I hear Benedict Arnold came within an eyelash of taking the province from the present command. But put it with what’s in the letter. The writer tells his friend at Howe’s headquarters that he should be operating up the Hudson River valley toward Canada before the year is out because Sackville has all but approved Gentlemanly Johnny’s plan. I recognize Sackville’s name. I was at Minden when he refused to attack with the British cavalry, and was cashiered for cowardice for it. He’s Lord George Germain, Secretary of State for the American Department. He’d not be approving plans of anyone but a general. If this Gentlemanly Johnny is General John Burgoyne, then all hell’s about to break loose in New York.”

  Franklin nodded vigorously. “Yes. Gentlemanly Johnny. That’s what I was trying to remember. It must be the same man. Mr. Fallon, you’ve hit on something vital, I believe. If those two armies move as this suggests, they could slice New York in two, perhaps pull it out of the cause altogether. That would cut off New England from the rest of America. And I’ll tell you, for your ears, in this room only, there’s been entirely too much disaffection up there since the fighting’s moved into the Jersies. I’m not entirely sanguine about what might happen then.”

  “Then you’ll send this to Congress?”

  “Better still, direct to General Washington.” Franklin folded the papers and stuck them in his pocket. “I’ll have my personal secretary make copies tonight. It’s better if Deane and Martin don’t know of this. Or Lee, for that matter. Now tell me, Mr. Fallon, will you come to a small soiree tonight? Small for Paris, that is. Two or three hundred people.”

  “I’d best leave for Brest, sir. My crew’s likely swimming in brandy by now. It’s time for Hussar to be back to sea.”

  “Hussar! Is that your vessel? Lord, man, there’s a ditty just over from England about you and your ship that’s all the rage among those favoring our cause.” Franklin began to make a rumbling noise; after a moment Michael realized he was singing. “‘The terror of the Irish Sea, the tiger of the Channel.’ You’ll help the cause immensely. Good, then. It’s settled. I’ll meet you at your lodgings at eight.”

  Michael had to laugh. In such ways did they serve their country.

  22

  Gabrielle felt cold in spite of the light spring warmth in the air. As her carriage rolled toward the river, down to the warehouse and the loading dock, she kept her eyes turned from the empty fields. They should have been full of slaves, making ready for planting, but their emptiness reminded her of what she had to witness, what the slaves had been confined to the quarters so they wouldn’t witness. Martha, sitting across from her, kept eyeing her worriedly, and Ames had tried to talk her out of it, but if she could order a thing, then she could watch it done.

  The carriage drew to a halt in front of the warehouse, and Ames joined her, doffing his tricorn. “Mrs. Fallon, we’re ready to proceed.” He hesitated. “I wish you’d go back to the house. I can see no need for you to witness this.”

  “And despite letting you convince me to let it happen, I’m still not certain I can see the need for it. Mr. Ames, in the years since ground was first broken on Tir Alainn, there hasn’t been a single flogging—” She felt a quaver coming into her voice and snapped her mouth shut. She refused to show him weakness.

  “Mrs. Fallon, perhaps you’re forgetting just what this Tib did. He hacked another man with an axe, half killed him, so he could take the other man’s wife.”

  “But he’s being sold off the plantation, Mr. Ames. Isn’t that enough?” Ames stared at the ground and sighed. “I hadn’t meant to tell you this, ma’am. Still. I’ve reason to believe this Tib has raped three of the women. They’re too scared to talk, but there’s evidence, a little. One of them is pregnant, and the last is only thirteen.”

  She felt bile rising in her throat.

  “It be the truth, ma’am,” Martha said suddenly. “Them girls, they afraid to say nothing, afraid he come after them.”

  “You knew,” Gabrielle gasped. “You knew? And you didn’t tell me?”

  Martha shifted uncomfortably. “I couldn’t tell you about no rape, Miss Gabrielle. I couldn’t tell you about nothing like that. But you got to whip him, now. Your people in the quarters, but they watching at the windows and round the corners, and listening, too. They ain’t meaning to disobey, Mr. Ames. Miss Gabrielle, it’s just that you justice. You punish Tib for what he done, then there is justice. You don’t, and there ain’t. Tib cut a man to get his woman, and all he get is sent away? The mens get to thinking maybe that ain’t so bad. And maybe worse could happen.”

  “Your abigail’s right,” Ames said.

  Gabrielle drew a long, deep breath. “Very well. It has to be done. I will stay, Mr. Ames.”

  Hesitating for just a moment, Ames nodded. He turned to wave at the four field hands waiting by the doors, the biggest men he could find on Tir Alainn. They disappeared into the warehouse, emerging with the struggling Tib in their grasp. Quickly they lifted his bound hands over a hook on the wall, and tore his shirt away. There was a moment’s pause then, until Ames indicated which one should take up the broad, leather strap. Some plantations had a regular ritual for it, and a regular man to carry it out. Tir Alainn wasn’t one of them.

  Gabrielle kept her eyes open while the big field hand brought the strap back, but as it started forward they snapped shut. The crack of that first blow ripped through her as if she’d been struck herself.

  Gabrielle concentrated on not flinching as each flat crack and its following scream knifed into the darkness she’d surrounded herself with. She tried to pretend the sounds were something else, to disguise them, but they were only what they were. A man was being beaten at her order. A dozen times she wanted to scream for it to stop. Let someone else be—justice. She clenched her jaws. She wouldn’t be weak. She wouldn’t.

  “It over, Miss Gabrielle,” Martha whispered.

  Behind the overseer Gabrielle saw the field hands taking Tib down, and quickly jerked her eyes away.

  “Mrs. Fallon,” Ames said, “I want to tell you how much I respect you. Both for doing what had to be done, and for your obvious reluctance to do it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ames. I—Drive me back to the house, Aesop.” She closed her eyes again until they halted at the steps. The sound of a horse trotting up the drive brought her head up.

  “Justin,” she gasped. A scurry of thoughts flooded her head. She knew her father had disowned her. And Justin was rumored to have ridden with Tory raiders in Georgia and East Florida. And he had no love for Michael in any case. And—

  He eyed her sardonically without dismounting. “I witnessed that little exhibition of yours. I always take Elizabeth to witness floggings at Les Chenes, but I didn’t know you took a proper interest in such things.”

  Half a dozen other horsemen waited down the drive, motionless except for the occasional pawing of a mount, watching. A stab of fear went through her. “What do you want here, Justin?”

  “Is that any way to greet me? I’m your brother, after all. What’s this?” he added, glancing at the ends of the house. “You having some work done?”

  She followed his gaze. At each end of the house stood a dozen field hands, with Daniel at the head of one group, and every man had an axe or a bush-hook in his hands. “Yes. Yes, I’m having some work done, just as soon as you’re gone. And don’t cry the question of blood with me. You and Papa forgot I existed on the day of my marriage.”

  His mouth twisted; he made it into a smile.

  “Justin, you’ve never had any but ill feelings for anyone of this house. My house, now. I’ve hinted for you to leave. Now I’m telling you. Leave Tir Alainn, and don’t come back so long as you harbor ill will toward any member of the Fallon family.” He jerked his horse around cruelly; she couldn’t resist one last thing. “Justin, be careful.”

  His surprise was clear, but he covered it quickly. “First you tell me to get off your land, and now it’s be careful.”

  “You are my brother, Justin. You’re still that.” Her eyes flickered to the men down the drive and away.

  “I’ll take care of myself,” he snapped. With crude emphasis he added, “You’ve chosen your bed. Now lie in it. As long as you have it.” And wheeling his horse, he galloped down the drive. The horsemen split to let him past, and fell in behind by twos.

  Daniel hurried to her, hat in hand, a worried look on his creased face. “Miss Gabrielle? Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “Of course she ain’t all right,” Martha snapped. “What you expect with all this commotion today?”

  “That’s enough, Martha.” Gabrielle summoned up a smile. “Thank you, Daniel. I’ll admit I was afraid until I saw you with those men. Whatever made you think to do it, I thank you.”

  “It wasn’t me, Miss Gabrielle. Some of the field hands come down to me at the boats. They say there be some rough men near the house, and they afraid for you, but they don’t know what to do. Mr. Ames, he already left in a boat with Tib, so I give them axes and such and brought them up to do what we could. You got no call to be afraid, ma’am. They ain’t going to let nothing happen to you.”

  “Thank you, Daniel. And thank them. And get their names for me. I must show my gratitude.”

  She began to tremble uncontrollably. Martha helped her into the house, crooning in her ear, but she barely heard. What a way to learn of the field hands’ loyalty. And what a way to earn it. Being justice. The year had to end soon. Michael had to come home.

  The Bristol Channel narrowed down by the time it reached the port, but it was still short of becoming the River Severn. Ships swung on every side of Hussar as the anchor let go, the quay only a short row away. Prizes were easier to find in port than at sea, Michael had decided, so they would cut out a vessel from under British noses.

  Michael took a last tug at his uniform coat before turning to inspect the crew. The sailmaker had done a fair job of altering it to fit. The buttons on the lapels, to denote seniority, had been changed to six rows of two, to indicate less than three years. It was still a worry, though. If any of those he met started thinking about it, they’d realize a ship of that size wouldn’t be captained by anyone higher than a lieutenant. But there’d been no way of making Christopher’s lieutenant’s uniform large enough to fit, and it was the only other officer’s garb they had.

  The crew had presented a different problem. The Royal Navy had no true uniform for its seamen, but he’d managed to achieve some uniformity out of the slop chest. Each man wore wide canvas pants, a striped shirt, an open coat, a scarf around his neck, and a tarred hat. They’d do, unless they had to speak in their Carolina drawls and Georgia twangs.

  Byrne waited on the quarterdeck with Mr. Petrie, the second mate, in a master’s uniform, and young Mr. Oliver, in midshipman’s gear. He met Michael by the wheel, and spoke in a low voice. “Have you happened to think that the Glenarch’s passengers might have reported having their uniforms stolen? Making them strip down like that on the deck. And only the Royal Navy men. I mean, we took a full complement of uniforms, and they might wonder why. Damn it, Michael, they might be waiting for us.”

  “One, they likely thought we were just getting back for some of the things the Royal Navy’s done to privateers. Two, were they waiting, they’d have opened fire by now. And three, they’d never think of it, because none but a madman would try it.”

  Byrne’s mouth was still hanging open when Petrie walked up. “Jollyboat’s in the water, sir. The men are going in now.”

  “All right, then. Mr. Byrne, remember to keep your eye on me; and don’t make a move till I signal.” Michael headed for the jollyboat. Ten men waited for him, holding their oars erect in the best Navy tradition. He smiled and checked the priming on his pistols. “Pull for that one, there. The fat brig lying low in the water.” His attention went to his quarry. Setting low, but with what? They swung in toward the side, and one of the oarsmen stood, ready to heave a line. “Hussar,” he sang out in Navy fashion.

  Michael swarmed up the side of the ship and glared around him at the officers gathering to greet him. “Captain Fallon. HMS Hussar. Bring out your manifest, and be quick about it.”

  The stout little captain puffed up a like a pigeon. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “Royal Navy business,” Michael snapped. “Either trot your manifest out, or spend the next six months in quarantine on this spot while the teredos worms eat your hull out. And it strikes me you’ve got some likely looking lads in your crew here. Damn me if I don’t press the lot. Except for the old one-eyed man with the arm and the leg gone. You can keep him.”

  The captain trundled hurriedly below. By the time he got back on deck with the manifest, he was running.

  Michael read the manifest and smiled. Flemish lace and French brandy. Brussels velvet and Dutch gin. The owner ought to send him a letter of thanks for the customs duties he was saving him. He read it through, slowly, three times, frowning as if his worst suspicions were confirmed. That, he was sure, would keep the captain’s attention on him while his men left the boat. But when he looked up the captain was staring at them. The question was plain on his face. What were they doing all coming on board? And only half were on deck. He needed another minute. “Tell me, Captain. What news have you?” The round little man looked at him, surprised by the sudden friendliness. “I’ve been at sea for weeks, and I’ve heard nothing of what’s been happening.”

  “They got Jack Dalby to Tyburn Hill at last.”

  “Jack Dalby?”

  “Yes. The highwayman who killed six men on Hounslow Heath. They say five thousand came to see him hang.” His words had been slowing as he spoke, and now he stared at Michael suspiciously. “How do you not know of Jack Dalby? The papers have been full of him this year and more.” He seemed to gather strength. “What’s this quarantine you’ve talked so much about? I haven’t heard about any quarantine, not until you mentioned it.”

  “Black plague,” Michael said, and counted on the terror of the very name to shut him up for another minute. The last man scrambled over the rail. Michael dropped the manifest and pulled his pistols. “If everyone does as he’s told, you’ll all come out of this with a whole skin.”

  The captain goggled at Michael’s guns, and whirled when the boatmen pulled theirs. “What—? What—?”

  “It’ll come to you. Jacobs, put the brig’s crew on the windlass and get the anchor up. Thomas, get some men aloft and put some sail on her. Jackson, take the helm.” Temporarily sticking one pistol back through his belt, he stepped to the rail long enough to wave his hat in the air. On the Hussar sails began billowing out. His prize took a strain on the anchor cable and moved as soon as it was clear of the bottom. The windlass clicked and clattered still as they moved out toward the Bristol Channel.

  They passed Cardiff and Barry, with the sea still a way before them, but Michael couldn’t wait. “Jacobs, break out the colors.”

  The Grand Union whipped aloft, thirteen red and white stripes with the British Union Jack for a canton. In seconds the same flag appeared on the other ship. The captain made a strangled noise when he saw it, and whirled on Michael. “You’re rebel pirates. Fallon! Hussar! I thought they sounded familiar. You’re the one sank HMS Charon in the Saint George’s Channel.”

  “I said it’d come to you,” Michael laughed. He leaped to the rail and balanced there with a hand on a shroud line. Ahead he was looking out into the open Atlantic. No Britisher could catch them now. It’d be clear sailing to Brest.

  Gabrielle settled back in her carriage, smiled a good-bye at Lucy Mainwaring, and motioned for Aesop to drive on down the Bay. Almost immediately she called for him to stop. That man waving to her. Surely that was—Yes, it was Mr. Carver, Michael’s friend. Lord. He looked as if he belonged in a sickbed. His years were on him heavily.

  “Why, Mr. Carver, how nice to see you. And how well you’re looking.”

  “I’ll take that for the polite fiction it is,” Carver laughed.

  “Not at all, sir. Have you heard the latest news? Ralph Izard has been appointed Commissioner to the Grand Duke of Tuscany.”

  “Just this morning. But surely that wasn’t what held you and Miss Mainwaring in such heated talk.”

  She shook her head in exasperation. “Prices. Imagine, seven shillings sixpence the pound for beef. Ten shillings for butter. Six pounds the pair for turkeys, four for geese. And it’s worse in dollars since no one’s sure what they’re worth from week to week. Do you know there are people in Charlestown on the edge of starving? That’s never happened before. I’ve organized some of the ladies to help provide food, but we have to work almost entirely through the women. Most of the men are too stiffnecked to admit being paupers.”