A Catch of Consequence
‘Makepeace Burke’s picked up a man.’ She could hear the voices now. And, because the Cut was as patriotic as it was respectable, she could also hear the addendum: ‘A Tory man.’
It hadn’t been easy, a woman running a tavern. One of the proudest moments of her life – and the most profitable – had been when, with the imposition of the Stamp Tax, the local lodge of the Sons of Liberty had chosen the Roaring Meg for their secret meetings. Good men most of ’em, like nearly all her customers, but, again like her other regulars, driven to desperation by an unemployment that was the direct result of British government policy.
And among those very Sons was at least one of the group that had thrown the drownder into the harbour. Mighty pleased they’d be to find Makepeace Burke succouring the enemy. An enemy, what’s more, who’d report them to the magistrates quicker’n ninepence.
‘Who done it on us?’ Sugar Bart would ask, as he climbed the gallows’ steps.
‘Makepeace Burke,’ the Watch would reply.
After that, no decent patriot – and all her clientele were patriots – would set foot in the Roaring Meg again.
Oh no, she couldn’t trust the Watch not to give her away; apart from being as big a collection of incompetents as ever let a rogue slip through its fingers, it was hand in glove with the Sons of Liberty. Last night, when Governor Bernard had called on the Watch to drum the alarm, he’d discovered that its men had joined the mob and were happily destroying property with the rest.
The nearer she got to her tavern, the more perturbed Makepeace became. ‘Lord, Lord,’ she prayed out loud, ‘I did my Christian duty and saved this soul; ain’t there to be no reward?’
Like most Boston Puritans, Makepeace had a pragmatic relationship with the Lord, regarding Him as a celestial managing director and herself as a valued worker in His company. Until now she’d found no conflict between Christianity and good business. She obeyed the Commandments, most of ’em, and expected benefits and an eternal pension in return.
And the Lord answered her plea this bright and hot August morning by skimming the last word of it across the surface of His waters until it hit a wharf wall and bounced it back at her in an echo: Reward, reward.
Receiving it, Makepeace became momentarily beautiful because she smiled, a rare thing with her, showing exquisitely white teeth with one crooked canine that emphasized the perfection of the others.
‘You surely can hand it to the Lord,’ she told Tantaquidgeon. ‘He got brains.’
The drownder was in her debt. There was no greater gift than that of life – and she’d just given his back to him. In return, he could reward her with a promise of silence. Least he could do.
She looked down fondly at the richly clad bundle by her feet. ‘And maybe some cash with it,’ she said.
Having settled on a conclusion she’d actually reached at the moment the drownder opened his eyes, she felt better; she was a woman who liked a business motive.
Also she was intrigued – more than that, involved – by the man.
As someone who’d fought for survival all her life, Makepeace was affronted by apathy. Never having accepted defeat herself, this drownder’s ‘Does it matter?’ had excited her contempt but also her curiosity and pity. Look at him: fine boots – well, he’d lost one but the other was excellent leather; gold lacing on his cuffs. A man possessed of money and, therefore, every happiness. So why was he uncaring about his fate?
The boat bumped gently against the Meg’s tottering jetty. Makepeace looked around with a surreptitiousness that would have attracted attention had there been onlookers to see it.
Bending low, she climbed the steps and looked into the tap-room. Nobody there. She went through and opened the front door to peer into the Cut for signs of activity. Nothing again.
She returned to the boat and told Tantaquidgeon all was clear. She threaded her lobster-pots together and dragged them up and through the sea entrance to her tavern with Tantaquidgeon behind her, the tarpaulined Englishman draped over his forearms like laundry.
CHAPTER TWO
The Roaring Meg’s kitchen doubled as its surgery, and the cook as its doctor, both skills acquired in the house of a Virginian tobacco planter who, when Betty escaped from it, had posted such a reward for her capture that it was met only by her determination not to be caught.
She might have been – most runaway slaves were – if she hadn’t encountered John L. Burke leaving Virginia with wife, children, Indian and wagon for the north after another of his unsuccessful attempts at farming. John and Temperance Burke had little in common but neither, particularly Temperance, approved of slavery, and they weren’t prepared to hand Betty back to her owner, however big the reward. She’d stayed with the family ever after, even during her late, brief marriage, despite the fact that John Burke’s failures at various enterprises often necessitated her working harder than she would have done in the plantation house.
She examined the body on the kitchen table, deftly turning and prodding. ‘Collarbone broke.’ She enclosed the head in her large, pink-palmed hands, eyes abstracted, her fingers testing it like melon. ‘That Mouse Mackintosh,’ she said, ‘he sure whopped this fella. Lump here big as a love-apple.’
‘I thought maybe we could redd him up a piece, then Tantaquidgeon row him to Castle William after dark,’ Makepeace said, hopefully, ‘Dump him outside, like.’
Betty pointed to a meat cleaver hanging on the wall. ‘You’ve a mind to kill him, use that,’ she said. ‘Quicker.’
‘Oh … oh piss.’ Makepeace ran her hand round her neck to wipe it and discovered for the first time that her cap was hanging from its strap and her hair was loose. Hastily, she bundled both into place. Respectable women kept their hair hidden – especially when it was a non-Puritan red.
Although the kitchen’s high windows faced north, the sun was infiltrating their panes. Steam came from the lobster boilers on a fire that burned permanently in the grate of the kitchen’s brick range, and the back door had to be shut not just, as today, to prevent intruders but to keep out the flies from the privy which, with the hen-house, occupied the sand-salted strip of land that was the Meg’s back yard.
Makepeace went to the door. Young Josh had been posted as lookout. ‘Anybody comes, we’re closed. Hear me?’
‘Yes ’m, Miss ’Peace.’
She bolted the door, as she had bolted the tavern’s other two. Tantaquidgeon was keeping vigil at the front. ‘Git to it, then,’ she said.
They were reluctant to cut away the patient’s coat in order to set his collarbone – it had to be his best; nobody could afford two of that quality – so they stripped him of it, and his shirt, causing him to groan.
‘Lucky he keep faintin’,’ Betty said. She squeezed her eyes shut and ran her fingers along the patient’s shoulder: ‘Ready?’
Makepeace put a rolled cloth between his teeth and then bore down on his arms. Her back ached. ‘Ready.’
There was a jerk and a muffled ‘Aaagh’.
‘Oh, hush up,’ Makepeace told him.
Betty felt the joint. ‘Sweet,’ she said. ‘I’m one sweet sawbones.’
‘Will he do?’
‘Runnin’ a fever. Them Sons give him a mighty larrupin’. Keep findin’ new bruises and we ain’t got his britches off yet.’
‘You can do that upstairs. He’s got to stay, I guess.’
‘Don’t look to me like he’s ready to run off.’
Makepeace sighed. It had been inevitable. ‘Which room?’
Betty grinned. The Meg was a tavern, not an inn, and took no overnight guests. The bedroom she shared with her son was directly across the lane from the window of the house opposite. Aaron’s, too, faced the Cut. The only one overlooking the sea and therefore impregnable to spying eyes was Makepeace’s.
‘Damnation.’ The problem wasn’t just the loss of her room but the fact that its door was directly across the corridor from the one serving the meeting-room used by the Sons of Liberty.
Oh well, as her Irish father used to say: ‘Let’s burn that bridge when we get to it.’
They put the bad arm in a sling of cheese-cloth and Tantaquidgeon lifted the semi-naked body and carried it up the tiny, winding back stairs, followed by Betty with a basket of salves. ‘And take his boot off afore it dirties my coverlet,’ Makepeace hissed after them.
Left alone, she looked round the kitchen for tell-tale signs of the catch’s presence in it. Nothing, apart from a bloodstain on the table that had seeped from a wound on his head. Jehosophat, they’d cudgelled him hard.
She was still scrubbing when Aaron came in, having rowed back from Cambridge after a night out with friends. ‘All hail, weird sister, I expect my breakfast, the Thaneship of Cawdor and a scolding. Why all the smoke in town, by the way? Did Boston catch fire?’
‘It surely did.’ He looked dark-eyed with what she suspected was a night of dissipation but she was so relieved he’d missed the rioting that he got an explanation, a heavy breakfast and a light scolding.
He was horrified. ‘Good God,’ he said.
‘Aaron!’
‘Well … the idiots, the weak-brained, scabby, disloyal, bloody—’
‘Aaron!’
‘—imbeciles. I blame Sam Adams. What’s he thinking of to let scum like that loose on respectable people?’
‘You stop your cussing,’ she said. ‘They ain’t scum. And Sam’s a good man. Respectable people? Respectable lick-spittles, respectable yes-King-Georgers, no-King-Georgers, let me wipe your boots with my necktie, your majesty. I wished I’d been with ’em.’
‘It’s a reasonable tax, ’Peace.’
‘You don’t pay it.’ Immediately, she was sorry. She didn’t want him indebted; she’d gone without shoes and, sometimes, food to raise and educate him and done it gladly. What she hadn’t reckoned on was that he’d become an English-loving Tory.
She broke the silence. ‘Aaron, there’s a man up in my room—’
He grinned. ‘About time.’
‘You wash your mouth out.’ She told him the story of her dawn catch. He thought it amusing and went upstairs to see for himself.
Makepeace turned her attention to the lobsters which, neglected, had begun to tear each other’s claws off.
‘Reckon he’s English,’ was Aaron’s verdict on his return. ‘A lord to judge from his coat. Did you see how they cut the cuffs now? When he marries you out of gratitude, remember your little brother.’
‘Sooner marry the Pope,’ Makepeace said. Aaron could be trusted on fashion; he made a study of it. An Englishman, by Hokey, worse and worse. ‘That important, somebody’ll be missing him, so keep your ears open today and maybe we’ll find out who he is. But don’t ask questions, it’d seem suspicious. And, Aaron …’
‘Yes, sister?’
‘I want you home tonight. But, Aaron …’
‘Yes, sister?’
‘No argifying and no politics. The Sons is getting serious.’
‘Ain’t they, though?’ He kissed her goodbye. ‘Just wait ’til I tell ’em you’re marrying the Pope.’
She waved him off at the door.
The Cut was awake now, shutters opening, bedclothes over windowsills to be fumigated by the sun, brushes busy on doorsteps, its men coming up it towards the waterfront – even those without jobs spent the day on the docks hoping, like rejected lovers, that they would be taken on again. Only Aaron went against the flow, heading towards the business quarter with an easy swagger.
Few wished him good morning and she suspected he didn’t notice those who did. Already he’d be lost in the role of Romeo or Henry V or whatever hero he’d chosen for himself today; he was mad for Shakespeare. The Cut, however, didn’t see youthful play-acting, it saw arrogance.
From a doorway further down came a sniff. ‘You want to tell that brother of yours to walk more seemly.’ Goody Busgutt was watching her watch Aaron.
‘Morning, Mistress Busgutt. And why would I do that?’
‘Morning, Makepeace. For his own good. He may think he’s Duke Muck-a-muck but the Lord don’t ’steem him any higher’n the rest of us mortals. A sight lower than many.’
Makepeace returned to her empty kitchen. ‘I’ll ’steem you, you bald-headed, bearded, poison-peddling, pious …’ In place of Mistress Busgutt, two lobsters died in the boiler, screaming. ‘… you shite-mongering, vicious old hell-hag.’
Cursing was Makepeace’s vice, virtually her only one. John L. Burke, master of profanity, lived again in the Irish accent she unconsciously adopted when she indulged it. She allowed no swearing in others but, as with the best sins, committed it secretly to relieve herself of tension, with an invective learned at her father’s knee. Today, she reckoned, having sent her both a dangerous, unwanted guest and Goody Busgutt all in one morning, the Lord would forgive her.
It was a busy day, as all days were. With Tantaquidgeon stalking in her wake, she took her basket to Faneuil Market instead of to Ship Street’s where she more usually did her buying, partly because the meat in its hall would be kept cooler and freer of flies than that on open stalls and partly to listen in that general meeting place for mention of a missing Englishman. She doubted if she could have heard it if there had been; Faneuil’s was always noisy but today’s clamour threatened to rock its elegant pillars.
Boston patriotism, simmering for years, had boiled out of its clubs and secret societies into the open. For once a town that prized property and propriety was prepared to sacrifice both for something it valued higher. There was no catharsis from last night’s mayhem, no shame at the damage, everybody there had become a patriot overnight. ‘We showed ’em.’ ‘We got ’em running.’ She heard it again and again, from street-sellers to wealthy merchants. She found satisfaction in hearing it from a knot of lawyers fresh from the courthouse, as exhilarated as any Son of Liberty at last night’s breakdown of order. Deeds, wills, all litigious documents were subject to Stamp Duty; the tax had hit the legal profession hard. But you sharks can afford to pay it, she thought, I can’t.
Even newspapers – another taxed item – had increased in price; she could no longer take the Boston Gazette for her customers to read as she once had. From the triumphant headlines: ‘The Sons of Liberty have shown the Spirit of America’, glimpsed as copies were passed hand-to-hand through the market, she gathered that the press was trumpeting revenge.
Indeed, no catharsis. If anything, those who’d taken part were excited into wanting to do it again and gaining recruits who saw their royal Governor taken aback and helpless.
In one corner, a penny whistle was accompanying a group singing ‘Rule, Bostonians/ Bostonians rule the waves/ Bostonians never, never, never shall be slaves’ with more gusto than scansion. Tory ladies, usually to be seen shopping with a collared negro in tow, were not in evidence, nor were their husbands.
‘Mistress Burke.’
‘Mistress Godwit.’ Wife to the landlord of the Green Dragon in Union Street. They curtsied to each other.
‘Reckon we’ll see that old Stamp Tax repealed yet,’ shrieked Mrs Godwit.
‘We will?’ shouted Makepeace. ‘Hooray to that.’
‘Don’t approve of riotin’ but something’s got to be done.’
‘Long as it don’t affect trade.’
They were joined by Mrs Ellis, Bunch of Grapes, King Street. ‘Oh, they won’t attack patriotic hostelries. Tories’ll suffer though. I heard as how Piggott of the Anchor got tarred and feathered.’
The Anchor was South End and gave itself airs.
‘Never liked him,’ Makepeace said.
‘Sam Adams’ll be speechifyin’ at the Green Dragon tonight, I expect,’ announced Mistress Godwit, loftily.
‘And comin’ on to the Bunch of Grapes.’
‘Always ends up at the Roaring Meg.’
Honours even, the ladies separated.
Despite the ache in her back, but with Tantaquidgeon to carry her basket, Makepeace detoured home via Cornhill so that she might be taunted by fashions she couldn’t afford.
Here there was evidence of a new, less violent campaign against the government. At Wentworth’s, who specialized in the obligatory black cloth with which American grief swathed itself after the decease of a loved one, a sign had been pasted across the window: ‘Show frugality in mourning.’ The draper himself was regarding it.
She stopped. ‘What’s that, then?’
‘Funereals come from England, don’t they?’ he said. ‘The Sons say as English goods got to be embargoed.’
Makepeace had never heard the word but she got the gist. ‘Very patriotic of you.’
‘Wasn’t my idea,’ said Mr Wentworth, resentfully.
The Sons of Liberty had been harsher on Elizabeth Murray, importer of London petticoats, hats and tippets for fifteen successful years. One of her windows was broken, the other carried a crudely penned banner: ‘A Enimy to Her Country’.
Men on upturned boxes harangued crowds gathered under the shade of trees to listen. Barefoot urchins ran along the streets, sticking fliers on anything that stood still, or even didn’t. Makepeace watched one of them jump on the rear of a moving carriage to dab his paper nimbly on the back of a footman. As the boy leaped back into the dust, she caught him by the shirt and cuffed him.
‘And what d’you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m helpin’ Sam Adams.’
‘He’s doing well enough without you, varmint. You come on home.’ She took a flier from his hand. ‘What’s that say?’
Joshua sulked. ‘Says we’re goin’ to cut Master Oliver’s head off.’
‘It says “No importation” and if you kept to your books like I told you, you’d maybe know what it means.’
She was teaching Betty’s son to read; she worried for his literacy, though he’d gone beyond her in the art of drawing and she’d asked Sam Adams if there was someone he could be apprenticed to. So far he’d found no artist willing to take on a black pupil.
He trotted along beside her. ‘Don’t tell Mammy.’
‘I surely will.’ But as they approached the Roaring Meg she let him slip away from her to get to the taproom stairs and his room without passing through the kitchen.
‘Going to be a long, hot night, Bet. I don’t know what about the lobsters. Can the Sons eat and riot?’
‘Chowder,’ said Betty. ‘Quicker.’
‘How’s upstairs?’
‘Sleepin’.’
‘Ain’t you found out who he belongs to?’
‘Nope. Ain’t you?’
Maybe she could smuggle him to Government House – she had an image of Tantaquidgeon trundling a covered handcart through the streets by night – but information had Governor Bernard holed up, shaking, at Castle William along the coast.
‘Sons of Liberty meeting and an English drownder right across the hall. Ain’t I lucky?’
When she went up to her room, the drownder was still asleep. She washed and changed while crouching behind her clothes press in case he woke up during the process. Tying on her clean cap, she crossed to the bed to study his face. Wouldn’t set the world on fire, that was certain sure. Nose too long, skin too sallow, mouth turned down in almost a parody of melancholia. ‘Why?’ she complained. ‘Why did thee never learn to swim?’
As she reached the door, a voice said: ‘Not a public school requirement, ma’am.’
She whirled round. He hadn’t moved, eyes still closed. She went back and prised one of his eyelids up. ‘You awake?’
‘I’m trying not to be. Where am I?’
‘The Roaring Meg. Tavern. Boston.’
‘And you are?’
‘Tavern-keeper. You foundered in the harbour and I pulled you out.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. How’d ye get there?’
There was a pause. ‘Odd, I can’t remember.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Oh God. Philip Dapifer. I don’t wish to seem ungrateful, madam, but might you postpone your questions to another time? It’s like being trepanned.’ He added querulously: ‘I am in considerable pain.’
‘You’re in considerable trouble,’ she told him. ‘And you get found here, so am I. See, what I’m going to do, I’m a-going to put my …’ She paused, she never knew how to describe Tantaquidgeon’s position in the household; better choose some status a wealthy Englishman would understand, ‘… my footman here so as nobody comes in and you don’t get out. You hear me?’
He groaned.
‘Hush up,’ she hissed. She’d heard the scrape of the front door. ‘No moaning. Not a squeak or my man’ll scalp you. Hear me?’
‘Oh God. Yes.’
‘And quit your blaspheming.’ She left him and went to find Tantaquidgeon.
The Roaring Meg was a good tavern, popular with its regulars, especially those whose wives liked them to keep safe company. The long taproom was wainscoted and sanded, with a low, pargeted ceiling that years of pipe smoke had rendered the colour of old ivory. In winter, warmth was provided by two hearths, one at each gable end, in which Makepeace always kept a branch of balsam burning among other logs to mix its nose-clearing property with the smell of hams curing in a corner of one chimney and the whale oil of the tavern’s lamps, beeswax from the settles, ale, rum and flip.
This evening the door to the jetty stood ajar to encourage a draught between it and the open front door. With the sun’s heat blocked as it lowered behind the tavern, the jetty was in blue shade and set with benches for those who wished to contemplate the view.
Few did. The Meg’s customers were mostly from maritime trades and wanted relief from the task-mistress they served by day.
The room reflected the aversion. A grandmother clock stood in a nook, but there were no decorations on the walls, no sharks’ teeth, no whale skeletons, no floats nor fishnets – such things were for sightseers and inns safely tucked away in town. For the Meg’s customers the sea’s mementoes were on gravestones in the local churchyards; they needed no others.
‘Going rioting again?’ she asked, serving the early-comers.
‘Ain’t riotin’, Makepeace,’ Zeobab Fairlee said severely. ‘It’s called protestin’ agin bein’ – what is it Sam Adams says we are?’
‘Miserably burdened an’ oppressed with taxes,’ Jack Greenleaf told him.
‘Ain’t nobody more miserably burdened and oppressed’n me,’ Makepeace said. ‘A pound a year, a pound a year I pay King George in Stamp Tax for the privilege of serving you gents good ale, but I ain’t out there killing people for it.’
‘Terrify King George if you was, though,’ Fairlee said.
‘Who’s killin’ people?’ Sugar Bart stood in the doorway, his crutch under his armpit.
‘I heard as how George Piggott got tarred and feathered down South End last night,’ Makepeace said quickly.
‘Tarrin’ and featherin’ ain’t killin’, Makepeace,’ Zeobab said. ‘Just a gentle tap on the shoulder, tarrin’ is.’
‘I’d not’ve tarred that Tory-lover,’ Sugar Bart said, ‘I’d’ve strung the bastard from his eyelids ’n’ flayed him.’
He tip-tapped his way awkwardly across the floor to his chair by the grate, turned, balanced, kicked the chair into position and fell into it, his stump in its neatly folded and sewn breech-leg sticking into space. Nobody helped him.
Immediately the injured man upstairs became a presence; Makepeace had to stop herself glancing at the ceiling through which, it seemed to her, he would drop any second, like the descending sword of Damocles. Bart’s virulence was convincing; she had no doubt that, should he discover him, he would contrive to have the Englishman killed before he could talk. Unlike most of those who’d indulged in smuggling – a decent occupation – Bart kept contact with the criminal dens of Cable Street and the surrounding alleys, never short of money for rum and tobacco. Whenever he hopped into the Roaring Meg its landlady was reminded that her tavern was a thin flame of civilization in a very dark jungle. And never more so than tonight.
Act normal, she told herself. She said evenly: ‘No cussing here, Mr Stubbs, I thank you.’ She heated some flip, took it to him, putting a barrel table where he could reach it, and lit him a pipe.