Drums of Autumn, Page 20

  slaves, all babbling in a confusing mixture of Gaelic, English, and bits of various African tongues.

  We found Ian with one of the young naval ensigns. They were peering interestedly into the blackened pit that now occupied the spot where the mound had stood.

  “It happens often, I understand,” the ensign was saying as we arrived. “I hadn’t seen it before, though—amazing powerful blast, wasn’t it?”

  “What happens often?” I asked, peering around Ian. The pit was filled with a crisscross jumble of blackened pine logs, all tossed higgledy-piggledy by the force of the explosion. The base of the mound was still there, rising up around the pit like the rim of a pie shell.

  “A pitch explosion,” the ensign explained, turning to me. He was small and ruddy-cheeked, about Ian’s age. “They lay a charcoal fire, d’ye see, ma’am, below a great pot of pitch, and cover it all over with earth and cut turves, to keep in the heat, but allow enough air through the cracks to keep the fire burning. The pitch boils down, and flows out through a hollowed log into the tar barrel—see?” He pointed. A split log dangled over the remains of a shattered barrel oozing sticky black. The reek of burnt wood and thick tar filled the air, and I tried to breathe only through my mouth.

  “The difficulty lies in regulating the flow of air,” the little ensign went on, preening himself a bit on his knowledge. “Too little air, and the fire goes out; too much, and it burns with such energy that it cannot be contained, and is like to ignite the fumes from the pitch and burst its bonds. As you see, ma’am.” He gestured importantly toward a nearby tree, where one of the turves had been thrown with such force as to wrap itself around the trunk like some shaggy yellow fungus.

  “It is a matter of the nicest adjustment,” he said, and stood on tiptoe, looking around with interest. “Where is the slave whose task it is to manage the fire? I do hope the poor fellow has not been killed.”

  He hadn’t. I had been checking carefully through the crowd as we talked, looking for any injuries, but everyone seemed to have escaped intact—this time.

  “Aunt!” Jamie exclaimed, suddenly recalling Jocasta. He whirled toward the sheds, but then stopped, relaxing. She was there, clearly visible in her green dress, standing rigid by the shed.

  Rigid with fury, as we discovered when we reached her. Forgotten by everyone in the flurry of the explosion, she had been unable to move, sightless as she was, and was thus left to stand helpless, hearing the turmoil but unable to do anything.

  I recalled what Josh had said about Jocasta’s temper, but she was too much the lady to stamp and rant in public, however angry she might be. Josh himself apologized in profuse Aberdonian for not having been by her side to aid her, but she dismissed this with kind, if brusque, impatience.

  “Clapper your tongue, lad; ye did as I bade ye.” She turned her head restlessly from side to side, as though trying to see through her blindfold.

  “Farquard, where are you?”

  Mr. Campbell moved to her and put her hand through his arm, patting it briefly.

  “There’s no great harm done, my dear,” he assured her. “No one hurt, and only the one barrel of tar destroyed.”

  “Good,” she said, the tension in her tall figure relaxing slightly. “But where is Byrnes?” she inquired. “I do not hear his voice.”

  “The overseer?” Lieutenant Wolff mopped several smuts from his sweating face with a large linen kerchief. “I had wondered that myself. We found no one here to greet us this morning. Fortunately, Mr. Campbell arrived soon thereafter.”

  Farquard Campbell made a small noise in his throat, deprecating his own involvement.

  “Byrnes will be at the mill, I expect,” he said. “One of the slaves here told me there had been some trouble wi’ the main blade of the saw. Doubtless he will be attending to that.”

  Wolff looked puff-faced, as though he considered defective saw blades a poor excuse for not having been appropriately received. From the tight line of Jocasta’s lips, so did she.

  Jamie coughed, reached over and plucked a small clump of grass out of my hair.

  “I do believe that I saw a basket of luncheon packed, did I not, Aunt? Perhaps ye might help the Lieutenant to a wee bit of refreshment, whilst I tidy up matters here?”

  It was the right suggestion. Jocasta’s lips eased a bit, and Wolff looked distinctly happier at the mention of lunch.

  “Indeed, Nephew.” She drew herself upright, her air of command restored, and nodded in the general direction of Wolff’s voice. “Lieutenant, will ye be so kind as to join me?”

  * * *

  Over lunch, I gathered that the Lieutenant’s visit to the turpentine works was a quarterly affair, during which a contract was drawn up for the purchase and delivery of assorted naval stores. It was the Lieutenant’s business to make and review similar arrangements with plantation owners from Cross Creek to the Virginia border, and Lieutenant Wolff made it plain which end of the colony he preferred.

  “If there is one area of endeavor at which I will admit the Scotch excel,” the Lieutenant proclaimed rather pompously, taking a good-sized swallow of his third cup of whisky, “it is in the production of drink.”

  Farquard Campbell, who had been taking appreciative sips from his own pewter cup, gave a small, dry smile and said nothing. Jocasta sat beside him on a rickety bench. Her fingers rested lightly on his arm, sensitive as a seismograph, feeling for subterranean clues.

  Wolff made an unsuccessful attempt to stifle a belch, and belatedly turned what he appeared to consider his charm on me.

  “In most other respects,” he went on, leaning toward me confidentially, “they are as a race both lazy and stubborn, a pair of traits which renders them unfit for—” At this point, the youngest ensign, red with embarrassment, knocked over a bowl of apples, creating enough of a diversion to prevent the completion of the Lieutenant’s thought—though not, unfortunately, sufficient to deflect its train altogether.

  The Lieutenant dabbed at the sweat leaking from under his wig, and peered at me through bloodshot eyes.

  “But I collect that you are not Scotch, ma’am? Your voice is most melodious and well-bred, and I may say so. You have no trace of a barbarous accent, in spite of your associations.”

  “Ah…thank you,” I murmured, wondering what trick of administrative incompetence had sent the Lieutenant to conduct the Navy’s business in the Cape Fear River Valley, possibly the single largest collection of Scottish Highlanders to be found in the New World. I began to see what Josh had meant by “Och, the bluidy Navy!”

  Jocasta’s smile might have been stitched on. Mr. Campbell, beside her, gave me the barest flick of gray eyebrow, and looked austere. Evidently, stabbing the Lieutenant through the heart with a fruit knife wasn’t on—at least not until he had signed the requisition order—so I did the next best thing I could think of; I picked up the whisky bottle and refilled his cup to the brim.

  “It’s terribly good, isn’t it? Won’t you have a bit more, Lieutenant?”

  It was good; smooth and warm. Also very expensive. I turned to the young-est ensign, smiled warmly at him, and left the Lieutenant to find his own way to the bottom of the bottle.

  Conversation proceeded jerkily but without further incident, though the two ensigns kept a wary eye on the Drunkard’s Progress going on across the table. No wonder; it would be their responsibility to get the Lieutenant on a horse and back to Cross Creek in one piece. I began to see why there were two of them.

  “Mr. Fraser seems to be managing most creditably,” the older ensign murmured, nodding outside in a feeble attempt to restart the stalled conversation. “Do you not think, sir?”

  “Oh? Ah. No doubt.” Wolff had lost interest in anything much beyond the bottom of his cup, but it was true enough. While the rest of us sat over our lunch, Jamie—with Ian’s aid—had managed to restore order to the clearing, set the pitch boilers and sap gatherers back to work, and collect the debris of the explosion. At present he was on the far side of
the clearing, stripped to shirt and breeches, helping to heave half-burned logs back into the tar pit. I rather envied him; it looked to be much more pleasant work than lunching with Lieutenant Wolff.

  “Aye, he’s done well.” Farquard Campbell’s quick eyes flicked over the clearing, then returned to the table. He assessed the Lieutenant’s condition, and gave Jocasta’s hand a brief squeeze. Without turning her head, she spoke to Josh, who had been lurking quietly in the corner.

  “Do ye put that second bottle into the Lieutenant’s saddlebag, laddie,” she said. “I should not want it to be going to waste.” She gave the Lieutenant a charming smile, rendered the more convincing as he couldn’t see her eyes.

  Mr. Campbell cleared his throat.

  “Since ye will so soon be leaving us, sir, perhaps we might settle the matter of your requisitions now?”

  Wolff seemed vaguely surprised to hear that he had been about to leave, but his ensigns sprang to their feet with alacrity, and began to gather up papers and saddlebags. One snatched out a traveling inkwell and a sharpened quill and set them down in front of the Lieutenant; Mr. Campbell whipped out a folded quire of paper from his coat and laid it down, ready for signature.

  Wolff frowned at the paper, and swayed a little.

  “Just there, sir,” murmured the elder ensign, putting the quill into his senior’s slack hand and pointing at the paper.

  Wolff picked up his cup, tilted back his head, and drained the last drops. Setting the cup down with a bang, he smiled vacantly around, his eyes unfocused. The youngest ensign closed his eyes in resignation.

  “Oh, why not?” the Lieutenant said recklessly, and dipped his quill.

  * * *

  “Will ye not wish to wash and change your clothes at once, Nephew?” Jocasta’s nostrils flared delicately. “Ye stink most dreadfully of tar and charcoal.”

  I thought it just as well she couldn’t see him. It went a long way beyond stinking; his hands were black, his new shirt reduced to a filthy rag, and his face so begrimed that he looked as though he had been cleaning chimneys. Such portions of him as weren’t black, were red. He had left off his hat while working in the midday sun, and the bridge of his nose was the color of cooked lobster. I didn’t think the color was due entirely to the sun, though.

  “My ablutions can wait,” he said. “First, I wish to know the meaning of yon wee charade.” He fixed Mr. Campbell with a dark blue look.

  “I am lured to the forest upon the pretext of smelling turpentine, and before I ken where I am, I’m sitting wi’ the British Navy, saying aye and nay to matters I ken nothing of, wi’ yon wee mannie kickin’ my shins under the table like a trained monkey!”

  Jocasta smiled at that.

  Campbell sighed. In spite of the exertions of the day, his neat coat showed no signs of dust, and his old-fashioned peruke sat squarely on his head.

  “You have my apologies, Mr. Fraser, for what must seem a monstrous imposition upon your good nature. As it is, your arrival was fortuitous in the extreme, but did not allow sufficient time for communications to be made. I was in Averasboro until last evening, and by the time I received word of your arrival, it was much too late for me to ride here to acquaint you with the circumstances.”

  “Indeed? Well, as I perceive we have a bit of time at present, I invite ye to do so now,” Jamie said, with a slight click as his teeth closed on the “now.”

  “Will ye not sit down first, Nephew?” Jocasta put in, with a graceful wave of her hand. “It will take a bit of talk to explain, and ye’ve had a tiring day of it, no?” Ulysses had materialized out of the ether with a linen sheet over his arm; he spread this over a chair with a flourish, and gestured to Jamie to sit down.

  Jamie eyed the butler narrowly, but it had been a tiring day; I could see blisters amid the soot on his hands, and sweat had made clear runnels in the filth on face and neck. He sank slowly into the proffered chair, and allowed a silver cup to be put into his hand.

  A similar cup appeared as if by magic in my own hand, and I smiled in gratitude at the butler; I hadn’t been hoiking logs about, but the long, hot ride had worn me out. I took a deep, appreciative sip; a lovely cool rough cider, that bit the tongue and slaked the thirst at once.

  Jamie took a deep draught, and looked a little calmer.

  “Well, then, Mr. Campbell?”

  “It is a matter of the Navy,” Campbell began, and Jocasta snorted.

  “A matter of Lieutenant Wolff, ye mean,” she corrected.

  “For your purposes the same, Jo, and well ye know it,” Mr. Campbell said, a little sharply. He turned back to Jamie to explain.

  The majority of River Run’s revenues were, as Jocasta had told us, derived from the sale of its timber and turpentine products, the largest and most profitable customer being the British Navy.

  “But the Navy’s not what it was,” Mr. Campbell said, shaking his head regretfully. “During the war wi’ the French, they could scarce keep the fleet supplied, and any man with a working sawmill was rich. But for the last ten years, it’s been peaceful, and the ships left to rot—the Admiralty’s not laid a new keel in five years.” He sighed at the unfortunate economic consequences of peace.

  The Navy did still require such stores as pitch and turpentine and spars—with a leaky fleet to keep afloat, tar would always find a market. However, the market had shrunk severely, and the Navy now could pick and choose those landowners with whom they did business.

  The Navy requiring dependability above all things, their covetable contracts were renewed quarterly, upon inspection and approval by a senior naval officer—in this case, Wolff. Always difficult to deal with, Wolff had nonetheless been adroitly managed by Hector Cameron, until the latter’s death.

  “Hector drank with him,” Jocasta put in bluntly. “And when he left, there’d be a bottle in his saddlebag, and a bit besides.” The death of Hector Cameron, though, had severely affected the business of the estate.

  “And not only because there’s less for bribes,” Campbell said, with a sidelong glance at Jocasta. He cleared his throat primly.

  Lieutenant Wolff, it seemed, had come to give his condolences to the widow Cameron upon the death of her husband, properly uniformed, attended by his ensigns. He had come back again the next day, alone—with a proposal of marriage.

  Jamie, caught mid-swallow, choked on his drink.

  “It wasna my person the man was interested in,” Jocasta said, sharply, hearing this. “It was my land.”

  Jamie wisely decided not to comment, merely eyeing his aunt with new interest.

  Having heard the background, I thought she was likely right—Wolff’s interest was in acquiring a profitable plantation, which could be rendered still more profitable by means of the naval contracts his influence could assure. At the same time, the person of Jocasta Cameron was no small added inducement.

  Blind or not, she was a striking woman. Beyond the simple beauty of flesh and bone, though, she exuded a sensual vitality that caused even such a dry stick as Farquard Campbell to ignite when she was near.

  “I suppose that explains the Lieutenant’s offensive behavior at lunch,” I said, interested. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but the blokes don’t like it, either.”

  Jocasta turned her head toward me, startled—I think she had forgotten I was there—but Farquard Campbell laughed.

  “Indeed they don’t, Mrs. Fraser,” he assured me, eyes twinkling. “We’re fragile things, we poor men; ye trifle with our affections at your peril.”

  Jocasta gave an unladylike snort at this.

  “Affections, forbye!” she said. “The man has nay affection for anything that doesna come in a bottle.”

  Jamie was eyeing Mr. Campbell with a certain amount of interest.

  “Since ye raise the matter of affections, Aunt,” he said, with a small edge, “might I inquire as to the interests of your particular friend?”

  Mr. Campbell returned the stare.

  “I’ve a wife at home,
sir,” he said dryly, “and eight weans, the eldest of whom is perhaps a few years older than yourself. But I kent Hector Cameron for more than thirty years, and I’ll do my best by his wife for the sake of his friendship—and hers.”

  Jocasta laid a hand on his arm, and turned her head toward him. If she could no longer use her eyes for impression, she still knew the effect of downswept lashes.

  “Farquard has been a great help to me, Jamie,” she said, with a touch of reproof. “I couldna have managed, without his assistance, after poor Hector died.”

  “Oh, aye,” Jamie said, with no more than a hint of skepticism. “And I’m sure I must be as grateful to ye as is my aunt, sir. But I am still wondering just a bit where I come into this tale?”

  Campbell coughed discreetly and went on with his story.

  Jocasta had put off the Lieutenant, feigning collapse from the stress of bereavement and had herself carried to her bedroom, from which she did not emerge until he had concluded his business in Cross Creek and left for Wilmington.

  “Byrnes managed the contracts that time, and a fine mess he made of them,” Jocasta put in.

  “Ah, Mr. Byrnes, the invisible overseer. And where was he this morning?”

  A maid had appeared with a bowl of warm perfumed water, and a towel. Without asking, she knelt by Jamie’s chair, took one of his hands, and began gently to wash the soot away. Jamie looked slightly taken aback by this attention, but was too occupied by the conversation to send her away.

  A slight wry smile crossed Campbell’s face.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Byrnes, though usually a competent overseer, shares one small weakness wi’ the Lieutenant. I sent to the sawmill for him, first thing, but the slave came back and told me Byrnes was insensible in his quarters, reekin’ of drink, and could not be roused.”

  Jocasta made another unladylike noise, which caused Campbell to glance at her with affection before turning back to Jamie.

  “Your aunt is more than capable of managing the business of the estate with Ulysses to assist her in the documentary aspects. However, as ye will have seen yourself”—he gestured delicately at the bowl of water, which now resembled a bowl of ink—“there are physical concerns to the running of it, as well.”

  “That was the point that Lieutenant Wolff put to me,” Jocasta said, lips thinning at the memory. “That I could not expect to manage my property alone, and me not only a woman, but sightless as well. I could not, he said, depend upon Byrnes, unable as I am to go to the forest and the mill to see what the man is doing. Or not doing.” Her mouth shut firmly on the thought.

  “Which is true enough,” Campbell put in ruefully. “It is a proverb amongst us—‘Happiness is a son old enough to be factor.’ For when it’s a matter of money or slaves, ye cannot trust anyone save your kin.”

  I drew a deep breath and glanced at Jamie, who nodded. At last we’d got to it.

  “And that,” I said, “is where Jamie comes in. Am I right?”

  Jocasta had already enlisted Farquard Campbell to deal with Lieutenant Wolff upon his next visit, intending that Campbell should keep Byrnes from committing folly with the contracts. When we had so opportunely arrived, though, Jocasta had hit upon a better plan.

  “I sent word to Farquard that he should inform the Lieutenant that my nephew had come to take up the management of River Run. That would cause him to go cautiously,” she explained. “For he would not dare to press me, with a kinsman who had an interest standing by.”

  “I see.” Despite himself, Jamie was beginning to look amused. “So the Lieutenant would think his attempt at a good down-setting here was usurped by my arrival. No wonder the man seemed to take such a mislike to me. I thought it was perhaps a general disgust of Scotsmen that he had, from what he said.”

  “I should imagine that he has—now,” Campbell said, dabbing his lips circumspectly with his napkin.

  Jocasta reached across the table, groping, and Jamie put out his hand instinctively to hers.

  “You will forgive me, Nephew?” she said. With his hand to guide her, she could look toward his face; one would not have known her blind, by the expression of pleading in her beautiful blue eyes.

  “I knew nothing of your character, d’ye see, before ye came. I could not risk that you would refuse a part in the deception, did I tell ye of it first. Do say that ye hold no grudge toward me, Jamie, if only for sweet Ellen’s sake.”

  Jamie squeezed her hand gently, assuring her that he held no grudge. Indeed, he was pleased to have come in time to help, and his aunt might count upon his assistance, in any way she chose to call upon him.

  Mr. Campbell beamed and rang the bell; Ulysses brought in the special whisky, with a tray of crystal goblets and a plate of savories, and we drank confusion to the British Navy.

  Looking at that fine-boned face, so full of blind eloquence, though, I couldn’t help recalling the brief synopsis Jamie had once given me of the outstanding characteristics of the members of his family.

  “Frasers are stubborn as rocks,” he’d said. “And MacKenzies are charming as larks in the field—but sly as foxes, with it.”

  * * *

  “And where have you been?” Jamie asked, giving Fergus a hard up-and-down. “I didna think ye’d money enough for what it looks as though ye’ve been doing.”

  Fergus smoothed his disheveled hair, and sat down, radiating offended dignity.