Shadowbrook (56 page)

The blood was pounding in his ears, but Hamish’s voice was steady. He let go of Annie’s hand and wrapped both his around the mug of rum to disguise their trembling. Annie cautiously begin to slide the money toward the table’s edge. Wanted to grab ’em up, Hamish knew, but she dinna quite dare. Damn Annie Crotchett to hellfire for holding him up for five golden ladies, but what she was telling him was worth the price. “Made the land over in return for what? Why would John Hale do such a thing?”

God’s truth, not to pay for three slaves. The man couldna be such a fool as he’d sell a piece o’ his birthright for the pride o’ going to an auction and letting the men o’ New York City see him buy three slaves he dinna really need. But Holy Jesus Christ Our Savior, the three o’ em was there that poxed day watching Hale pay cash money for slaves not four months after he’d been nearly burned out.
Levy and De Lancey and the lawyer James Alexander. If there was land to be made over, a lawyer would be needed. “What did Hale get for the land?” Hamish asked. He made a gesture as if to take back the stack of golden ladies. Annie whisked them away and made them disappear down the front of her dress.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted.

“Christ Jesus.” Hamish spoke the words with as much venom as he could muster, but inside he was singing. If she dinna know what had made John Hale agree to such a devil’s own bargain, than more than likely she was lying. “You’ll not get to keep five ladies for such rubbish as that, Annie Crotchett.”

“It’s true. Every word of it.” Her chest was heaving so she thought her paps might come out of her dress. Maybe this would be enough. Maybe she didn’t have to tell Hamish the rest of the tale. At least not yet. Maybe once these golden ladies were gone she could come back and get more for the part of the story she still hadn’t told. But why had he stopped watching her? Hamish had half turned and was staring down the room with his single eye. “Hey! What you looking at now?”

“Close your gob, lass. And keep it closed for a bit.”

Annie half stood so she could see what he saw. “Jesus Christ,” she breathed, settling heavily back down on the bench. “So he’s come home, has he? They said he’d gone back to the Ohio Country for good this time.”

Hamish scowled. The presence of Quentin Hale might complicate things, but the matter at hand was more urgent. “Keeps turning up like a bad penny, that one. But we canna allow him to interrupt our business, Annie lass. You were about to tell me what John Hale got for making a piece o’ Shadowbrook over to Hayman Levy and his friends.”

“No, I was not. I already told you, I got no idea ‘bout that.”

“Then I’ll have my golden ladies back. Give ‘em over or I’ll shake ‘em free.”

“I earned them ladies fair and square, Hamish Stewart. I didn’t—”

“You dinna tell me a story as makes any sense. And that means it’s a bloody lie and I’ll have my money back. Are you giving it to me or do I have to take it?” Hamish gripped her arm and stood up, dragging her up with him.

“Sit down!” Annie didn’t realize she’d yelled until she saw a couple of heads turn. “Sit yourself down, Hamish Stewart.” This time she whispered the words. “I never said I was finished, did I? There’s a bit more to tell.” She dare not hold back the rest.

“Get it spoke and done with, Annie Crotchett, or I swear I’ll send a few more teeth where the front two went.”

Instinctively Annie pushed her tongue into the gap where her teeth should have been. Wasn’t a man did that. Went to a barber and had ‘em yanked out, she did, ‘cause they was aching so bad, but she didn’t fancy losing any more. She took a deep breath. “John Hale signed a paper as gave the men in New York claim to the whole of the Hale Patent.”

Hamish couldn’t speak. When the words finally came they were a squeak, forced out through an almost closed throat. “He dinna do such a thing. He would na do such a thing.”

“He did. He signed it. The sutler saw him. And they was all talking about cane land, down in the Islands somewhere. Cane land in return for the Patent, it sounded like. But the sutler wasn’t sure ‘bout that.”

Hamish didn’t say anything. He’s going to explode, she thought, like a kettle when the lid’s on too tight and the fire’s too fierce. But when the Scot spoke, his voice was so low she had to strain to hear what he was saying. “Go,” he whispered. “Get out of here.”

“Who are you to tell me what I’m to do, Hamish Stewart?” Her arm still hurt from where he’d grabbed it. She rubbed the sore place, knowing she’d have a bruise there later. “I’ll come and go as I please and don’t you forg—”

“Get out o’ my sight, you wretched she-witch. Now.”

“You ain’t got no cause to talk to me like that,” she said. But she was standing up to go even as she spoke. “No cause, Hamish Stewart. I ain’t—”

Hamish half rose. Annie turned and ran.

He sat down again. His legs felt na strong enough to hold him. Cane land in return for Shadowbrook. It made perfect sense, if you were John Hale and seeking only to show a profit on the Patent. A venal, cowardly, miserable excuse for a man, was John Hale. And if he went to Shadowbrook and killed him as he deserved to be killed, skinned him alive maybe, as if he were a rabbit on a croft, what would that gain? A hangman’s noose, most likely. And there was Quentin Hale, no farther away than the front door o’ this miserable tavern where a man couldna get a dram o’ proper whiskey however much he needed it. Passing the time o’ the evening when his stinking brother had signed away their birthright. Did Hale know? He couldna. Not and sit there like that, as if nothing were wrong.

Hamish reached the front of the tavern in six strides. Quentin Hale sat with his back to the wall. Old man Groesbeck was hunched across from him, straddling a small stool and leaning forward as if to hear better. The Scot put his hand on the landlord’s shoulder. “Go tend your other guests. I’ve business with this one.”

Quent looked up. The afternoon light was fading fast, and the Nag’s Head was always stingy with candles. He could see a short hulk of a man standing behind Peter Groesbeck. “Take your hands off him or I’ll do it for you,” Quent said.

“Aye, laddie. I’ve no doubt you would,” Hamish said softly. He removed his hand from Groesbeck’s shoulder. “But there’s better uses for your righteous rage. I can warrant that.”

Groesbeck stood up. “I be leaving you two gentlemans to settle your own affairs.”

“You do that.” Hamish made no move to take the stool the Dutchman vacated. “Step outside wi’ me, laddie. What I have to say is na for any ears but your own.”

Quent squinted into the dimness. “I know you, don’t I?”

“You did. But you were a wee bairn at the time. I doubt you remember.”

“I do. Hamish something.”

“Aye, Hamish Stewart. And you’re Quentin Hale. Now come outside. You’ll not thank me for telling my story in here.”

It was dusk. A cartman drove a wagon up the cobbled road. A small group of Yorkers in their blue and red coats walked briskly toward the nearest gate in the stockade. The breeze carried a river chill and the first scent of autumn. “You gave me a dirk,” Quent said. “I cherished it.”

“Aye. I remember that I did. Still have it, do you?”

“Not anymore. But last time I held it, it saved my life.” Someday, as soon as this insanity loosed by Braddock was done, he’d go after Lantak and get the dirk back. “I’m in your debt.”

“Nay, laddie, you’re not. Not for the gift o’ a wee dirk. But you might be.”

“And that’s what you want to talk to me about?”

“Something you should know.” Despite the chill Hamish was sweating. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. Fierce heat in summer and cold enough to freeze a man’s balls in the winter. God’s truth, he must be mad to want to remain. Except that Shadowbrook was here. “Your brother,” he began.

“What about him?”

“He’s forfeited your birthright.”

“If I’ve a birthright it’s this.” Quent tapped the long gun hanging over his shoulder. “Nothing else.”

“The law may say it’s the elder who inherits, but it’s Almighty God puts a man in one place and not another. That’s how a birthright comes to be.”

“You’re talking of Shadowbrook.”

“Aye. Just a wee bairn you were, but you sat up in front of your father most days when we rode out to see the place. From Do Good in the north to the sawmill at the southern end. You knew every blade o’ grass grew on the land, and every bird in every tree.”

This land be your pa’s land, but it don’t rightly belong to no human being, This land belong to God Almighty. It got a lot to teach you. No way you can have learned it all. Not yet.
Solomon the Barrel Maker was a wise man. Quent hoped that John was letting him end his days in peace, with Sally Robin. “My father’s dead. Shadowbrook belongs to my brother John.”

“No,” Hamish said. “It does na, laddie. Take my word on that.”

“You’re not speaking sense.”

“I wish to Almighty God I were not. John Hale’s given a lien on Shadowbrook to three New York businessmen. He means to trade the Patent for cane land in the Islands.”

“You’re lying. He wouldn’t—”

“Ha’ you na heard about this new name for Bright Fish Water? And is there na a new fort on the Great Carrying Place?”

“The fort’s been built where John Lydius’s trading post has always stood. Lydius leases the land from the Patent. Look, I admit Johnson makes free, but it’s in my brother’s best interests to allow him to do so. Temporarily. The French are a threat to—”

“The only best interests John Hale recognizes are his purse. He signed away Bright Fish Water and the Great Carrying Place and God knows what else, and promised to exchange the rest for cane land. He made a pact with Hayman Levy and Oliver De Lancey. Probably James Alexander as well. Though Alexander might only ha’ been there to do the lawyering. I would na lie, laddie. Not about the Patent. If you think about your brother, you’ll ken.”

Quent claimed a horse from Hooghkerk’s Livery on Market Street and rode hard all through the night Not yet dawn when arrived; the house was an inky black shadow on a still dark horizon. “John!” He screamed his brother’s name even as he pelted toward the stables. “John!”

The yells and the pounding of the horse’s hooves woke Jeremiah and he stumbled into the stable yard. “Master Quent. What you be—Jesus God Almighty, Master Quent. You fair to killed this horse. I ain’t never seen you ride any animal near to death like—”

“Look after him.” Quent slid from the saddle and gave the black man the reins, then ran toward the house. “John! I’ve come to talk to you!”

Jeremiah led the horse toward the stable, making clucking noises, deliberately turning his back on whatever might be going to happen at the big house. Wouldn’t be a good thing. He was sure of that.

There was a balcony outside John’s room, just as there was outside the one that had been Quent’s. His brother appeared, half naked; he must have pulled on breeches when he heard his name called.

“Come down here or I’m coming up there! You’ve questions to answer.”

“Why the hell should I—”

“Down here or up there. Your choice. You’ve till the count of three to make it. Otherwise I’ll take off your left foot.” Quent unslung his gun and aimed and cocked it. “One, two—”

“Stop your foolishness. I’m coming down.”

The Ibo child called Taba huddled beside the bed, her black eyes enormous in the half dark. She could see the man standing below the balcony. Not clearly, but
clear enough. She could see the gun. Kill him, she thought. Please kill him. She held her breath, but the shot never came.

A thin band of pink ran along the horizon. Quent could make out John’s features in the false dawn, his cheeks shadowed with black stubble and his eyes red-rimmed from too much rum the night before. “Did you do it?”

“Do what? What the hell are you—”

“Did you make over Shadowbrook in return for cane land in the Islands?”

Think, John told himself. He’s armed and you’re not. Besides, you’ll never best him in a one-on-one fight, no matter what the weapons. What does he know? “Make over …” He spoke slowly, pausing between each word, giving himself time to make a plan. “Exchange Shadowbrook for cane land? Is that what you mean?”

“That’s what I mean.”