CHAPTER EIGHTEEN............THE SPECULATORS
CHAPTER NINETEEN…….……..THE POLITICIANS
THE SPECULATORS
CHESTNUT NECK
SUMMER, 1783
The PASSAIC FALCON arrived at the mouth of the Great Bay with the rising sun on the equinox. Michael had timed his arrival to coincide with the Lenapi celebration and toasted Stella with French wine as he piloted his ship deftly up the Mullica River. He rode the incoming tide like it were alive allowing it to carry him gently through the salt grasses, spinning the wheel hard to port then hard to starboard gliding along the meandering of the river channel. To those who knew the passage into the smuggler’s lair, his sailing was the finest they had ever seen. No captain they had sailed under had ever navigated the entry so deftly. His course lay true, he was home with his contract completed. Victorious! He piloted the PASSAIC FALCON under the branches of the ancient cedars camouflaging the entry to Chestnut Neck. Deftly he skirted the sandbars and fallen trees hiding the channel, riding the offshore wind and the still waters of the eventide.
The bridge over Shepherd’s creek had not been rebuilt but the outline of the trees on the shore looked exactly as when she had left. Stella looked to Andrea, she was proud to see her standing opposite her and at her father’s side. Christopher sat on the deck between his parents, clinging to his father’s right leg and his mother’s left. He was looking up in awe at the huge cedars surrounding him. His eyes widened as they approached the burnt skeleton of the British Cruiser ZEBRA, the ship that had led the raid on Chestnut Neck and run aground. She had been salvaged and scavenged so heavily only the broken keel and a few ribs remained.
Stella stepped to the rail and appraised the situation. She lifted the crystal goblet of wine and called out, “Welcome home, Captain.”
Michael toasted her with wine in a goblet like the one she held aloft. Andrea squeezed her fathers arm and glanced down at her baby brother. He was safe under the protection of Captain Fields. “Captain, I’m going forward. With your permission,” she added.
“Run up. We’re approaching the fortifications.” The young girl ran to her mother’s side, exchanged words Michael could not hear and then dashed off along the port gunwale headed for the bow.
Stella stood at the Afterdeck rail, three paces from the wheel, watching the scenery slide by. She was anxious and although everything about the day felt right, all she could think of was her father. The PASSAIC FALCON came around the final bend. The range markers her husband and Count Rhordon had placed, still stood. Off the forward bow on the low rise overlooking the channel, the ruin of the fortification riveted Michael’s attention. There was sweat glistening on his brow. Stella stepped to his side and put her hand over his on the wheel. He was holding it tightly against the drift and riding the wind. The navigator within her called for the wheel to come about full port. Only a heartbeat before she would have done it, Michael spun the wheel hard and the PASSAIC FALCON came smoothly around the bend, running deep in the channel, heavy with cargo. He was handling her perfectly. She put her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes and let the river carry her. She opened her eyes, to see the fortifications on the hill where they had worked together, a lifetime ago. Her practiced eye saw that the fort had not been rebuilt. She squeezed his arm at the elbow and he nodded. “Look up ahead. Off the Starboard. The Red Water Inn is still standing.” Andrea called from the bow, “Log cabin off the Starboard bow.” Her voice was louder than it need to be. The ocean no longer swept her words away. “Is that it, Father,” she called?
Michael felt his heart rate increase. He breathed deeply then went into a pant as they drifted under the gun ports he had manned that awful week. Stella’s head snapped up when she felt his breathing quicken. “I am alright,” he said. “Just a ghost passing.” Then called out in a voice that carried to his daughter and drifted up to the great branches above. “Aye, it is lassie.”
The village had grown while they were away. Stella swept Christopher up in her arms and slid up between her husband and the wheel and wrapped her free arm around his waist. It was her favorite position to hold him on the late night shift, as they cruised on a calm sea, under a clear sky. She nuzzled up against him, feeling safe but now anxious to see her father. Christopher knew the position and nestled himself between his parents. Stella pressed herself against her husband and kissed him with all the passion she could bring forth. He returned her warmth and she squeezed a little tighter. “I’m going. I love you and if all is well, I’ll meet you at the Red Water with half the patriots in East Jersey.” She wiggled out of his grasp and pirouetted. Holding her baby tightly to her breast, she half danced and half ran down the companionway and into the knot of men and women dancing and cheering. Crying and laughing. “Go find your father,” Michael called. “I’ll take care of our business here.”
On the forecastle, his wife and daughter were literally jumping up and down with excitement. “Mister Vanderbeec,” he called. “Down all sails and prepare to drop anchor.”
“Aye,” he called and a renewed cheer went up from the crew.
Stella surveyed the town. The Red Water Inn had been rebuilt. It was larger than it had been before the British had burned it. Up the Mulberry creek she could see a wisp of smoke from where her father’s home would be. Andrea called from the rail, “Captain. Sails are down and the anchor is set. We’re home Father.”
She looked back to him and waved as she went over the side to the long boat and ferried to the shore with her children. The beach was wider than when she had left. “Artillery has a tendency to do that,” she thought as Andrea bound out of the long boat and up the trail. The pathway up to the village was now wide enough to handle traffic in two directions. The oaks overhead seemed thinner but higher. The turn off to her father’s house was no longer a hidden track, it was a well-beaten path. She easily saw the house through the trees and her heart beat faster. The new house was larger than the one she had grown up in and the memory of the “Raid of '77” flashed back on her. The terror of hiding in the swamp, holding Andrea in her arms and watching as the house burned. She could almost feel the spirit of her husband. They had only been married a year when the British came. She felt him watching and thought of the last time she saw him, carrying his rifle and trotting off into the forest, going to fight the British.
Behind her, the sound of a horse galloping up the path caused her to stop and pull Andrea off to the side and let rider pass. At the fork in the path leading to her father’s house the rider reigned in hard on his mount and flew off the saddle in a cloud of sandy dust. The rider hit the ground on his feet and ran up to the path to her father’s front door. He was knocking and calling out as Stella and her children came to the path. “Captain,” he called inside. “A ship sailed up the river this morning without a pilot and docked on your pier. Her bowsprit’s a bird and she’s called PASSAIC FALCON.”
Captain Van Arsdale came sleepily to the door. “PASSAIC FALCON, you say?”
“Aye, sir. She’s a frigate. Been in many a fight, if you ask me. And, Sir, she carries twenty-eight guns.”
The old man’s eyes cleared less quickly than his mind. He stood in the doorway and stammered. “Pa…PASSAIC FALCON.” He paused and whispered, “Booty!” Then he yelled, “Booty!” He staggered back through his house and out the back door and made his way down a three-foot embankment to a sandy beach on a swift running creek. He stepped calf deep into the stream, splashed water up onto his face and drank the river water from his cupped hands. He stood and cried, “The PASSAIC FALCON is home!”
Stella carried Christopher around the side of the house and out to the creek behind the house. Her father was splashing in the golden water and screaming the name of her ship. “Father,” she called. He stopped his yelling and stood still in the stream trying to focus his eyes. “Stella!” he called and scrambled up the embankment to sweep her up in his arms.
-*-
By mid-day, friends and relatives of the PASSAIC FALCON’s original crew had begun to gather. Martin and Mary Shea were among the first to arrive at the Red Water Inn looking for information on her. Captain Shea had returned a treasure ship for Michael and held a position of some dignity among the smugglers. With the return of his captain, he was due additional shares of booty but more than that, a hero of the War for Independence was returning to surrender his Letters of Marque and Reprisal. When he entered the RED WATER INN with his wife, he was dumbfounded to see Stella working behind the bar and before he could gather himself to speak, Stella and Mary shrieked out each other’s names in unison and ran to each other. They hugged and danced, laughing madly, till their laughter turned to tears and they collapsed onto the floor weeping in each other’s arms.
The door opened again and the Mayor of Chestnut Neck entered bellowing, “Van Arsdale, you old bag of wind, tell me what you…” He stopped in mid sentence. On the floor at his feet, two women were crying hysterically. His heart chilled and he prepared for some tale of horror, then his eyes widened as he recognized Stella. He swept the two women up in his arms and joined their catharsis. Captain Van Arsdale nodded his head. “Yes sir,” he thought. “There is going to be one hell of a celebration around here tonight.”
In the years after he sailed from Chestnut Neck, Michael had sent home four treasure ships carrying profits to the VENGENCE CORPORATION. With the arrival of each ship, the crews brought tales of their adventures sailing with the PASSAIC FALCON. Captain Fields had become synonymous with the name and speakers would often use the names interchangeably. Everyone in the village knew of his victories. The treasure ships he had sent back proved their wild tales and for the past year, the “talk and ale” crowd at the Red Water Inn had speculated that Captain Fields had repaid his benefactors, by their own casual estimate, in the area of “several times over.” He was their favorite, a hero. He had fought battles at home and on the high seas. He had sent more military supplies back to General Washington’s army than any other Captain. Some said he had sent more guns than the French. And he had a castle! The idea boggled the minds of the folk around Chestnut Neck and they couldn’t wait to meet him in person.
Michael stood on the dock overseeing the cargo being off loaded from the schooner. It was a deliberately planned action, he was working the crowd with a display of spoils that would have envied a Caesar. Vanderbeec was on the shore meeting the curious villagers as they came down the path to see what was going on and hiring them and any carts they could find to carry booty up to the Red Water Inn. As the goods he sent up the trail became more fabulous, the crowd cheered. He started with livestock, a fat pig and brace after brace of live chickens, geese and ducks. He could hear the noise from the people lining the trail rise. Scattered shots attested to the approval of the mob. At any other time, at any other place he would have ordered his crews to “Battle Stations” but home in Chestnut Neck, with the war over, the shots he heard were celebration, not fighting. He felt safe. The voices on shore rose in a loud cheer of approval. “That would be the whiskey,” he thought. Thin columns of smoke were rising from several places in the village. “Stella is getting a party together,” he thought and checked off a chest of rolled tobacco cigars, sending it up to the site of the coming celebration.
He took a deep breath. The years of waiting for the final reckoning had ended. He though of his castle overlooking the South Bay of Guadeloupe. The French had offered him an option to remain on as Governor but he turned it down when they required that he become a French citizen. His heart was in America and he wanted to return home. Now that he was here, he wondered what was about to unfold before him.
The RED WATER INN was still the center of community activity and Captain Van Arsdale set his daughter and grandchildren to make a profit of the homecoming. There were going to be friends, merry makers, merchants and probably, politicians coming to his tavern. He had to prepare to feed a large number of guests. When people found out Captain Fields had returned there was going to be celebrating across the new nation. And that meant that food and drink had to be prepared. He poked his head into the Bakery shop and called, “Delores, I’ll need twenty dozen loaves and any special pastry treat you can come up with for supper tonight. We will need even more for tomorrow. Captain Fields is home!” His joy was contagious. The workers at the tavern jumped to follow his orders. He pointed to the young boy who cleaned up after the meals and told him, “Old man Simmons took a deer last night. Run up there and offer him two Spanish dollars to buy it from him. If he refuses, offer him a third.” He turned the coins over to the boy and sent him sprinting out the door. He paused, then called to his daughter, “Stella. Get two men down in the cellar and bring up a keg of ale…and a barrel of beer…and some wine…and rum.”
“Father,” she called with an admonishing voice. “Don’t worry about the food. Just get the fires going. Michael is sending everything we will need.”
By noon, the RED WATER INN had taken on a carnival atmosphere. Mary stoked the outdoor fire pit to a roar and threw fresh logs onto the fire. She was about to return inside to help behind the bar when the first sailors arrived with the live stock. They offered money to villagers to slaughter the animals and prepare them for roasting and ushered Mary back inside where old acquaintances were renewed over glasses of wine.
Homer Castle, the first mate on the LAURA, had sailed with Martin and knew him from the old days when they drove Jersey wagons to Batsto. Their reunion was boisterous, loud and thankful. The First mate directed Martin to the dock where Captain Fields could be found. Martin joined a handful of residents heading down the trail to the dock. As they walked he listened to their speculation as to whether Captain Fields was still alive. Behind them, riders were galloping off into the forest to report that another of their family had returned home and there was cargo to be unloaded. The men slowed as they came to the edge of the forest and milled around in the shade watching the ships at anchor. Martin walked on as they hesitated and went to the tall man wearing a wide brimmed hat, checking off the cargo as it was being unloaded. “Sir,” he asked. “Can you tell me where I may find, Captain Fields?”
Michael spun around. The voice had frightened him, he had been deeply engrossed in the inventory and had allowed himself to be caught off guard. His instinct was to strike but he held his hand steady on the handle of his Indian knife till he identified the speaker. “Martin!” The name burst forth from him before he could control his mind. “Michael,” was the response with a voice that carried deep respect. They hugged almost clumsily and Martin stepped back to look over his old friend. He shook his head and whispered, “The fight has been cruel to you, Captain. You carry terrible wounds. I have seen lesser that have killed men.” He paused and choked back uncontrollable emotions. “Thank you for sending Mary and myself home. You gave me honor where I had lost all respect for myself. If I may be of service, send for me and I shall respond with haste.”
Michael nodded appreciatively accepting the respect offered to him and responded, “I appreciate your pledge, Captain Shea. Please, I would like to go up to the Inn and see what all the commotion is all about. Would you finish the tally for me while I go and see what it is?”
“Sir, I would be proud to assist.”
“Thank you, Captain. When the manifest is complete, please, bring Mary and join me, my family and my officers for dinner.” Martin stiffened his back and smiled to his Commander, “Yes, Captain. I would be proud to join you.”
The crowd at the edge of the forest had grown considerably but they seemed intimidated and stood back rather than approach. Perhaps it was the number of guns carried by the small fleet before them. Or perhaps it was the reputation of the man who commanded the privateer fleet at anchor in their harbor. They had all heard the story of mad Captain Raven and how Captain Fields had killed him. Everyone in Chestnut Neck knew a sailor who had shipped under Captain Fields and they all spoke of his courage with reverence. They honored the time they had spent serving under him but whispered of his wild temper and bloodthirsty ways.
The sun was dropping behind the forest and the shadows were becoming long when Michael called for his officers to join him at the Red Water Inn and toast the completion of their voyage. They met on the dock and set off up the path as a group. As they approached the gathering of people under the trees, the gawkers stepped aside. Only a few dared step forward. Someone called out from the crowd, “Captain Shea, Is it really Captain Fields?”
“That it is,” he called back. “A true hero of the War for Independence is home!”
As Michael and his officers approached the Inn, they found that word of their presence had preceded them. People surrounded the Inn. Vanderbeec ordered his seamen to move to the front of the procession and circle their Captain forming a protective cordon around him, keeping the curious at bay and clearing a path through the throng of men trying to press bottles of whiskey to him. Women broke from along the side of the road and hugged the sailors. One cried out, “Captain Fields!” It is him!” Cheering broke out. Children skipped along side the growing and clamoring crowd of citizens and slipped past his guards to touch his hand. Before the throng could become too overbearing, they made it to the Inn. But when they opened the door, they found no relief from the adulation and were greeted by a cheer from an Inn so full of people that their cheer stirred and frightened the creatures in the forest around them.
The celebrating lasted well into the night with more people arriving from the outlying villages by the hour. Captain van Arsdale seemed to shed years as he introduced his grandchildren around the room to friends and acquaintances. He beamed as only a Grandfather might as Andrea, nearly eight years old, regaled his friends with tales of sailing in a Hurricane, fighting British ships in close combat and treasure buried on uncharted islands. Meanwhile, young Christopher patiently tolerated his sister's excesses and charmed the ladies with his own winning smile.
-*-
Terence McDougal had spent the last two years as a prisoner of war. He had been the Captain of FREEDOM, when she was sunk at the Battle of the Saints and the treatment he received from his captors made him wonder many times if it would not have been better to have drowned or been eaten by a shark. During his captivity he continually antagonized his captors who were more than glad to return physical abuse and was repeatedly beaten and starved as he was shuffled from one prison ship to another. His last stop was the British frigate, PORTSMOUTH anchored in New York harbor, where deliberate privation and torture were a matter of daily life. After six months aboard, his physical strength was about to give out when word of the Treaty ran through the prisoners. They knew it was true when their conditions began to improve and a few weeks later they were exchanged for British prisoners in New York City. Upon his release, Terence pulled himself together and headed directly for Chestnut Neck. He knew a fortune was being held in trust for him and if he were to be reunited with his wife, that was where they would meet. In the months he waited for the return of the PASSAIC FALCON he built a small cabin overlooking the Mullica where he could watch the river. On the day Michael docked at Chestnut Neck, he was on the pier waiting. His reunion with Eleanor brought the unloading operation to a complete halt. Crewmen and wives who had sailed with them joined in their joy hugging them and weeping on the dock. That night as the musicians played their tunes, the McDougal's danced as they never had before. Like lord and lady, thanking their maker for bringing them back together. Celebrating victory. Celebrating a love that had survived the war and grown stronger by separation and faith.
Michael surrounded himself with his Captains and retreated from the merry making to a corner table where he sat with his back to the wall and Martin and Vanderbeec flanking him. His leg was aching again but the overwhelming joy he felt kept it at bay. He sipped at the rum and sugared lime before him. It helped the pain and lifted his spirits as he watched his crews celebrate.
The Mayor of Chestnut Neck was paying his respects when Stella nudged Vanderbeec aside to sit next to her husband. She inserted herself into the circle and listened as the Mayor spoke. “In the morning, I will be sending couriers to New York and Philadelphia. They will be carrying letters to the officers of the VENGEANCE CORPORATION. Considering the nature of your reputation and the prizes you have returned, I should guess they will begin arriving within a matter of two days and the cargoes may be disposed of within a fortnight.”
-*-
Alexander Hamilton was absently adding a column of figures in the office of his newspaper, The New York Post. He nodded. “The paper has become profitable!” He congratulated himself out loud. “People want to hear what I have to say. My editorial page is the rage of New York fashion.” His Secretary knocked on his office door and dispelled the warm aura of self-satisfaction. “Yes Walter, what is it,”
“Mr. Hamilton, a rider has arrived with a dispatch addressed to you. He insists it must be delivered personally.”
Alex looked past his employee to the man standing a few feet behind him. “Very well,” he said. “Let him deliver it.”
He accepted the stiff leather case. The messenger smelled of hard riding and Hamilton paid him a second thought. “Where are you riding from, son?” he asked.
“Chestnut Neck, Sir.”
He opened the case and removed a single paper envelope sealed with wax and marked with the logo of VENGANCE CORPORATION. The first thought through his mind was “Money. Those rascals always have good news,” he thought. He put his thumb under the seal and broke it. With deliberate nonchalance he handed back the case, dismissed the rider and sat down to read the letter. Suddenly, he called out, “Rider!” The young man stopped. His secretary looked up from his desk as Hamilton burst out of his office and snapped an ordered to the rider, “Wait for me here, I’m going back with you.” Then to Walter, “Take over the publication. I will be back in due time. Till then, be sure to be published by mid-day, Saturday. Without fail.” He dashed out the door. His press operator stopped in the middle of his operation and watched in awe as his employer rushed past him and out onto the street.
Hamilton started at a trot then broke into a run as he came to the building where he lived and dashed up two flights of brownstone stairs. He crashed into the suite of rooms he owned, pulled a change of cloths out of his closet and sat down at his desk to write three notes. Each was addressed to a shareholder of the VENGANCE CORPORATION. Each was a financial partner in the venture that had launched Captain Fields and the PASSAIC FALCON. Each was a veteran of General Washington’s campaigns and had stood beside him in battle. With the notes dispatched, he hired a horse and rode with the messenger, non-stop, to Chestnut Neck.
-*-
The PASSAIC FALCON and WARRIOR were riding at anchor while LAURA was being unloaded. Michael was in his stateroom, consumed by the task of accounting for the cargo he carried and did not see Alex arrive on the dock. The journey had taken two days hard riding. They had stopped only to rest the horses, then pressed on through the night, over planked roads, guiding by the light of a half moon. He was the first of the officers of the VENGENCE CORPORATION to arrive and he anxiously presented himself at the RED WATER INN where he was told, “You will find Captain Fields in his quarters, aboard the PASSAIC FALCON.
Alex could scarcely contain himself. He was trembling as he rowed the short boat out to the frigate anchored downstream. “He is alive and he has brought back one hell of a treasure,” he thought, then realized the current was about to take him past the ship. “And he did this at night and carrying a load of gunpowder,” he thought and rowed harder, breaking into a sweat. He would have swept past the PASSAIC FALCON if a crewman on deck had not thrown him a line. He secured his dinghy to the gangway and climbed up the rope ladder to her deck. On board, he was met by half a dozen burly sailors, who questioned his business on the ship. He introduced himself quickly and told them his business was with Captain Fields. The largest of the sailors looked him over and growled into his face. “Be you Mister Armlon?” “No,” he responded. “I’m Mister Hamilton.” The big man nodded. “He said you would be here today. The Captain is in his cabin. Follow me, sir.”
Alex knocked and waited. A warm voice from within to bade him to enter. “Captain Fields?” His words preceded him as he stepped into the sunlit chart room. The man at the desk rose. He was tall and slender. He was sunburned and scarred. His hair was silvery gray, tied at the back of his head and he wore a patch over his left eye. Alex stepped in to the chartroom. Michael closed the book he was working in, rose and took a short painful step toward to his guest, “Alex,” he said and extended his hand.
Hamilton gripped his hand warmly and pumped it, then hugged him. “You’re back from the dead a second time.”
“Third time, Alex and this time, I’m carrying treasure. More treasure than even I can imagine. Do come and have a seat. “Stella,” he called. Andrea popped her head down the companionway from the deck above and Stella’s voice came up from below decks. Michael took her hand as she came up the companionway. “Alex. Do you remember my wife, Stella.” She stepped up and stood straight in front of him. “Welcome to our home,” she said. “Behind you is my daughter, Andrea with our son, Christopher. Alex took Stella’s hand and bowed low in front of her, kissing her hand as he rose. “I recall from our last meeting and I am absolutely charmed,” he said.
The afternoon dulled to evening as Michael and Alex reminisced over what had brought them to where they were and then moved on to how much things had changed since he had left. The newly independent nation was quickly throwing off the memory of the war and asserting itself. The nation was destined to be more than the original thirteen states and the new leaders were struggling with ways to govern themselves and deal with their neighbors, particularly the Iroquois Confederation. England was no longer the enemy. The country was awakening to the potential of its future. Michael’s head spun, partially from the rum and sugared lime he so enjoyed but moreover from ideas he had never contemplated. He changed the subject. “Alex, allow me to present you with a copy of the manifest. It is long and replete with the finest trade goods in the world and includes a staggering inventory of gold bars, jewelry and precious stones.” Alex nodded knowingly to him. “And in keeping with the terms of your charter, Michael, do you wish to be relieved of your responsibilities and surrender your letters of Marque and Reprisal?” Stella’s heart skipped a beat as Michael responded crisply, “Yes. I do.”
Alexander Hamilton assumed control of the PASSAIC FALCON, WARRIOR and LAURA in the name of the VENGEANCE CORPORATION and directed an inventory of the cargoes each ship carried be dispatched to his three shareholders.
It took another week to gather a majority of the shareholders together. The major partners, including Hamilton, had sold pieces of their share to pay debts and secure purchases. Those shares had again been divided and sold, then divided and sold again. The shares were more secure than Continental Dollars and represented a stake in a venture that had already returned a profit to the investors. There were more than three hundred shareholders present on the day of the auction and to a person, they were impressed with Michael's performance on their behalf. Their appreciation was so great that in a magnanimous gesture before the auction began, representatives of the majority offered to sell the PASSAIC FALCON to him at a very reasonable price. “I have forfilled my contract,” he told them. “Now there are new matters to attend.”
The July morning was humid and suffocating with humidity. On the edge of the forest and on the bank of the Mullica overlooking the anchorage, a perfume mist from the cedar forest mitigated the heat and made the day bearable. With the ships in sight, the auction began and the PASSAIC FALCON, followed by WARRIOR and LAURA were each sold to the highest bidder. The purchase price was to be paid in gold, tobacco, trade goods and real estate holdings. After the sale, Michael felt a small twinge of regret but shrugged it off as he calculated his share of the purchase price. Stella squeezed his hand tightly and bid farewell to the PASSAIC FALCON as a new crew boarded her and the ships that had served them well sailed down stream to the Atlantic and out of their lives.
In the early afternoon, the cargo Michel’s fleet had brought home was auctioned off under the boughs of a huge oak mid-way between the tavern, the dock and the warehouse. Michael and Stella sat at the back of the crowd, at a small table on the porch of a cabin they had rented. He held Christopher on his lap, Andrea and Stella sat flanking him as the bidding for the trade goods opened. The crowd was as heated as any Michael had witnessed but still, the opening bids caught him off balance. Andrea sat on the step and turned to her parents. “Can the prices be this high,” she inquired with disbelief. Michael had expected a high demand for the merchandise he brought but was unprepared for just how high the bidders were willing to go. Quickly, the offers went beyond what he considered reasonable and then higher into the realm of fabulous. Item after item was sold at a price far above what he had calculated as the best he could expect.
Stella was unable to keep her feet from tapping as her father bid on a necklace he couldn’t possibly need. She puzzled as he bid again, topping the last offer. “Michael,” she asked, “Since our return, have you seen any particular woman in my father’s company!”
“Yes, he responded, Several.”
“Oh,” she breathed and stopped wondering about his purchase.
The last items on the card were the ones Michael had pinned the success of his contract upon. As the bidding on them began, he sat back in his chair, leaning further and further back till he was supporting himself by his heels and the back legs of the chair, his body, almost iron rod straight. Stella was sitting next to him, squirming in her chair and drinking French wine as the bids rose. Andrea scooped up Christopher and settled him on her lap as she sat on the step partially paying attention and partially playing with the brother. She could feel the excitement between her parents. They were holding hands. Listening intently to the man at the tree trunk as he sing-sang words that were hard to understand. But every time she heard “Sold,” the crowd sighed and her parents giggled with pleasure.
When the auction was done, the reckoning of shares due to the Chestnut Neck Privateers began. Late that night, the surviving crewmembers met privately in the Red Water Inn. Michael stood behind a table set at the back of the main room. “There are so few remaining,” he thought. “Only a handful of the friends left from the gallant crew that sailed away with me so many years ago.” The reckoning began with a role of the PASSAIC FALCON's original crew. Michael visibly trembled as he read the names of the crew he had begun with. His voice broke with emotion when he called the names of sailors he knew to be dead in combat or lost at sea. At the name of Adolph Rhordon, his response was barely audible and Stella touched his hand and the crew bent their heads in remembrance.
The Smugglers of Chestnut Neck had scrupulously tended the portion of the fortune owned by the crew of the PASSAIC FALCON while they were at sea. Their portion of the cargo sent home over the three-year sojourn in the Caribbean had been traded for gold coin. This had then been invested in real estate and farm animals. Assets that could be easily be sold or traded. At the final tally, the remaining members of the crew, who thought themselves already wealthy beyond their wildest dreams, once again were shocked by the size of their fortunes. Before accepting their shares, they rose to toast their dead comrades and drank to their memory, then toasted themselves, the living and as if on cue, broke out into wild revelry. They had completed their contract, sent shares to the survivors of their dead, and were free to embark upon lives of wealth and luxury that their daring, courage, fortitude and fearlessness had earned them.
-*-
Alexander Hamilton insisted that Michael, Stella and their children move to New York with him. “I will introduce you to the most influential families in the city and in our new nation. Since the end of the war, Tories have been leaving the city by the drove. There are properties to be had cheap. Apartment blocks. Farms. Mansions. A man of your wealth can have the pick of what you please!”
After settling themselves into a spacious apartment, Michael and Stella took their time and visited properties for sale as Alex suggested. The choicest parcels on Manhattan Island were available at prices that seemed insignificant. But they took their time and purchased wisely. First a building north of Wall Street that was spacious and warm. Then they bought a farm near the Jumal mansion and hired an overseer who would run it in their absence.
Alex saw to it that they were invited into the homes of the most prominent citizens of New York. In a dizzying schedule they went from home to home, meeting people who knew of their exploits, people who had invested in their adventure and given them the PASSAIC FALCON. These people knew others who begged them to attend their parties and wound the spiral of social engagements higher and higher. Wherever they went people fawned over them. The reality of their exploits had been swept away by legend. Alex’ newspaper had carried serialized episodes of their adventures. Captain Fields sailing with his family into the teeth of the British Navy. Captain Fields, the hero of Pensacola. Captain Fields fooling tax collectors. Captain Fields freeing slaves. But when the adulation was done, the conversation always turned to the most serious of subjects. The future of the nation they had wrested from the hands of a foreign King. Would the new leadership guide the nation forward to peace and prosperity or would they allow it to fall back into serfdom. The future lay before them, unforeseeable.
The years of fighting had taken their toll on Michael. With the treaty and the end of his commission he felt freed as if he had been released from servitude. Now he needed time to survey his new environment. Everything had changed. He had fashioned a future but it was not what he would have chosen. His choice of futures had been stolen but repaid grandly and he needed to find his way in the world he had created. A world in which he was honored and rich. But he couldn’t focus upon the task while drifting from one party to another and then his health faltered. He spent days in bed recouping his strength, contemplating the ideas he had heard in the most prestigious salons in the city. But there were ghosts nearby that needed to be settled.
Edmund Kingsland was a guest at a salon where Michael was entertaining the guests of a wealthy New York City veteran with tales of the war he had conducted in the Caribbean. Kingsland waited patiently for the appropriate moment to present himself. Their meeting was silent and tearful. None of his childhood friends had survived the war and they grieved the loss. Kingsland invited Michael and Stella to attend a ball he was hosting at his Manor House, as his guests of honor, the follow week. They accepted.
The trip to Kingsland Manor was faster than Michael had recalled. The road was as still immaculately tended as when he was a child and their carriage carried them smoothly across the swamps and up the hill to the Schuyler Manor. Only a single light shone on the first floor and as they passed and Stella guessed that Colonel Schulyer had wagered his future with the British and lost. Along the Indian Trail the horse’s hooves thundered on the plank surface as the panorama of the Hackensack valley passed beside them. At the Kingsland Manor, a well-tailored footman helped them out of the carriage and directed them to their host. Inside the brightly lit rooms, Michael could almost feel the footsteps of his mother and sister as they delivered dresses to the ladies staying there. A wave of ghostly remembrance swept over him as they entered the library and were received by Master Kingsland, he remembered his father accepting his share for the sale of the carved crystal they called the “PASSAIC FALCON.”
Kingsland’s guests that evening were wealthy farmers from Bergen and Merchants from New York City, who had invested heavily in the war effort and now were seeking a return on their investment. They expected privilege and concession and the icon of their efforts was Captain Fields. Edmund Kingsland stood in the center of the dance floor and held up his hands up for quiet. A hush fell over the gathered merry makers and he began to speak.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, The years of war have left deep scars upon Barbadoes Neck, Bergen and East Jersey. We have buried our dead, bound our wounds and comforted the dying.” He paused. The invocation had captured their attention. “From the first days of rebellion to the first hostile shots, a young man from our community has played a critical role in winning freedom for this new nation. Courage and fortitude have been his stock in trade. Endurance, mercy and daring have been his mark. May I introduce to you Captain Michael T. Fields. One of our own, who fought valiantly for the freedom of our country." There was a tear in his eye when Michael and Stella came forward and the orchestra began to play “Yankee Doodle.” The guests applauded and pressed in around Michael as he acknowledged their adulation.
Later that evening, Kingsland and Michael sat in the library drinking whiskey and talking. Kingsland asked of Faith and Michael nearly broke into tears telling of her death. Not knowing how to comfort his guest, he asked, "Will you be returning home to stay?"
"No,” he responded, “I have been thinking of New York. Alex Hamilton thinks it will be the capital of our Nation."
Kingsland nodded and countered, "Philadelphia will be the new capital. And that is where you should be young man. Your blood vengeance is repaid. Now is the time to create something lasting. The debates are about to begin. Opposing sides will argue the meaning and shape of the government that will rule us. Will it be different than what we have had? The Iroquois Confederation seeks friendship but speculators seek to drive them off their land. Slavery exists as a blot on our moral leadership.” His words struck sparks in Michael’s brain. He watched through the open door overlooking the ballroom as dancing couples swirled around the floor and Andrea wove her way through them and entered the library. She stood in the doorway till she located her father, then came over to the overstuffed chair where he sat and perched herself on the arm of his chair. She kicked her feet up and slid onto his lap. He kissed her on the forehead, then swatted her away. She spun and danced her way out of the library leaving her father to his conversation. “Philadelphia seems to be the logical candidate for Capital,” he mused. “Benjamin Franklin lives there. The Declaration of Independence was signed there. It is central to the major cities and its port rivals New York and Boston. Industry is growing. The soil is fertile.” Kingsland leaned forward in his chair and interrupted Michael’s musings. “Michael, you have been hosted into the homes of countless Patriot friends from Boston to Charleston. At dinner parties, young women and old soldiers alike beg you to tell of your exploits. You are the kind of hero the nation needs. You have exhibited splendid leadership. Those who served under you, idolize you.” Michael began to object but Kingsland spoke over him.
“Listen to me Captain Fields. Included in a handful of heroes, names like George Washington and John Adams and Alexander Hamilton stand as beacons. Your name stands brilliantly beside them. And why not,” he asked rhetorically? “You have made a lot of people a lot of money. This money has opened many doors that would otherwise have remained closed to them and to you. Your days of combat are not over yet. You have access to people of influence who will shape these United States. Among farmers, sailors, merchants, trappers, philosophers and veterans, plans are being laid. In the select salons, like those you have been introduced to, more can be gained with a clever word and a strong stance than with all the guns in your fleet. You are no stranger to the places where the shape this new nation of ours is being plotted. You are in a unique position to guide those debates. To influence future events. You must move to Philadelphia. You need to be there when the Convention convenes. When questions are asked and the debate begins you must make your voice heard. Speak out and never allow the reasons for the sacrifices your friends made to be forgotten.”
-*-
PHILADELPHIA
Fall, 1783
Philadelphia was indeed the premier city of the new nation. Its expansion, since Michael's last visit, had been dramatic and the city now boasted more than 40,000 inhabitants and salons to rivaled those of the European capitals. Shortly after settling into a comfortable Inn, Michael and Stella sought out the owner of a large estate at the edge of the city and offered him an exorbitant price for his property. The offer was so outlandish the owner and his family were packed and moved out within the day.
The house was situated on a gently rolling plot of farmland with a view of the harbor. As far as Michael was concerned, its location was strategic if he were to be involved in the coming battle. It took only a small portion of his fortune to hire the workers needed to renovate the existing house and transform it into a mansion to rival his castle in Port-a-Petre. When they were finished, it stood three stories tall with glass windows on all sides. Its architecture was so well executed that the sun warmed and lit every room, even in the depths of the winter. The porch on the south side was shaded by a widow's watch above and overlooked a broad lawn bordering a dirt road which he paid to have the surfaced with cobblestone to match those on the streets of Philadelphia. The library and dining room, both on the south face, were shaded from the mid summer sun by the shadow of a chestnut and walnut grove. He had personally directed the architect to design the library so that the equinox sunrises entered through small windows and played upon a face of Masingua he placed on the wall. His telescope was mounted near the bay window overlooking the harbor below and a map of Guadeloupe hung over the fireplace. A stand of rifles, collected during his years of combat, stood behind glass doors under a half dozen mounted Committee Pistols. The sword given to him by Count Rhordon stood to the right of the fireplace and on the left, Calik’s wampum belt and knife hung from a peg to balance it. The two green and red parrots given to him by Kanu Baka and the slaves freed from ARGUMENT flew free among the plants and books, squawking and nibbling on the greenery and waiting to occasionally alight on Andrea’s shoulder. One had learned the words “PASSAIC FALCON” and cried it out whenever someone entered the room.
On the second floor, their bedroom opened onto the widow’s watch, a balcony that looked over their fields, the city and to the harbor. Stella kept her telescope mounted on a tripod beside the door and daily surveyed the ships in the harbor as they came and went. The children's rooms were at the opposite end of the house and between the two was that most modern of all American inventions, indoor plumbing. Running water throughout their home had been suggested by Benjamin Franklin and brought to reality by a company Michael purchased and championed whenever the opportunity arose.
The rooms of the mansion were beyond the grandeur Stella had become accustomed to at Pointe-a-Petre. She was extravagant with her purchases of rich furniture. Silk wall hangings adorned the portals of each room. Potted plants dressed every room lending a tropical atmosphere to the sun drenched space and a dozen caretakers scurried about the house tending to every small detail of housekeeping.
Michael’s old smuggling habits died hard and he couldn't keep himself from installing several Smuggler’s Keeps into the basement and attic of the building and in the walls between several of the rooms. The carpenters he employed in this matter presented credentials from Chestnut Neck vouching for their skill and integrity. These assurances were further reinforced with generous fees to insure their silence. The investment bought him several well-disguised keeps, but each only big enough to satisfy a lazy smuggler. He had no need for a keep on the scale of Master Kingsland’s, provided, that is, that he did not go back into the business.
Behind the house, the barn and livery were filled with fine horses and riding gear. The carriage house sported three Hansom carriages that were lavishly appointed and marked the passengers as ranking members of Philadelphia society. Neighbors sent their children to him to work grooming the animals and cleaning the stalls. He took an interest in them and built a small one-room schoolhouse where they were required to learn to read and do mathematics as a condition of keeping their jobs.
Despite the wealth he had accumulated, the damage his body had sustained during the years of war began to show upon him and take their toll. Infections in the wounds he had received at the Saints had troubled him off and on for the past two years and the first Philadelphia winter after their return was especially hard. As the cold winds piled snow up around his windows, doctors and shaman alike were summoned to examine him and render their opinions on the best method of treatment. Word of his ills eventually reached Alex who asked General Washington to intervene and summon the best doctor in the Country.
Doctor Eddington, who had been the Chief Surgeon for Washington's army, arrived on Michael's doorstep on a gray day of freezing drizzle and bitter wind. Although he presented himself as a concerned friend, the impression he gave Stella was that he was put out to have been imposed upon to tender an opinion. While warming himself before the fire in the library, he made it a point to tell her that since the end of the war he had returned to private practice and was not willing to take on new patients. Stella choked back the urge to throttle the man to within an inch of his life and drag him into the bedroom to tend her husband. All she said was, “This way, Doctor.”
Doctor Eddington examined Michael for well over an hour. When he was done, he invited Stella to sit with him and Michael as he discussed the state of the numerous wounds her husband had suffered. He explained how the bits of iron from exploding shells were embedded deep in his flesh and were poisoning his blood. He concluded his diagnosis stating, “Surgery is the only answer I know.” The shrapnel must be removed or it will kill him.” His words hung heavy over Stella as the doctor rose to leave.
As the Doctor was wrapping his cloak over his shoulders and preparing to go out into the storm, he paused and addressed Stella, “ I had no idea the General had dispatched me to tend Captain Fields. I though it was just another favor and I was quite put out. Please, I beg you, accept my sincerest apologies. If I had known who you were, I would have been here sooner. I would be more than pleased to be your husband’s personal physician but…” His pause was extended until Stella looked him in the eye. “I demand absolute compliance.” Stella responded, “I’ll make sure your orders are followed, Doctor.”
Doctor Eddington returned the following day and under his skillful hand, the small pieces of metal lodged in Michael’s body were surgically removed. The operations were a test of strength for Michael. His anesthetic was rum and when he had consumed enough to dull the pain and lull his mind to sleep, the doctor began cutting into his flesh. Michael held a leather wrapped dowel in his mouth and bit down on it rather than scream. He endured the probing into his back, arms and legs through three operations and when each was over, fell sweating into a deep sleep induced by exhaustion. Over the following days, under the doctor’s watchful eye, the incisions healed and the infections and recurring fevers diminished until they no longer ravaged his body. But even though they had been brought under control and a rosy flush returned to his patients skin, Doctor Eddington knew that so much damage had been done to his body, that the Captain would never again be what he had once been.
Although there was nothing the good doctor could do to correct Michael's limp, he ordered a glass eye to be fitted into the empty eye socket. The effect was immediate. Michael's spirits brightened. Andrea giggled and hugged her father as he shed the eye patch. Christopher didn’t recognize his father at first but when he did, he found the change to his liking. Stella loved the change, the aura of malevolence seemed to lift as he shed the frightening image of Blackbeard, the Pirate.
Michael inquiries brought an opportunity that he liked to his attention and he became involved in a plan to pave the streets of Philadelphia with granet blocks, the quality of which would rival the streets of Paris and London. But before investing he took a trip thirty-five grueling miles north of Philadelphia, to the area of Lenapihoking, to inspect the quarry operation. The journey was to be an outing with his family and Michael planned for a train of three wagons to carry them, their provisions for the journey and several of their household workers.
Only a few miles outside of Philadelphia the farmland changed to ancient forest. Huge trees shaded the trail they followed and made the trip quite enjoyable. Deer startled by the wagons darted deeper into the forest. Small animals watched them pass. Twice Andrea called for the wagons to stop and she darted about picking wild flowers. But before the first day ended, the nature of the forest began to change. The trees were tall but young, new growth. No longer where there monumental oaks shading the path. As the sun began to set, the road through the rolling hills was lined with young saplings fighting with weeds for domination of the land. Swarms of insects filled the air and the few cattails they had to burn did little to repel the hideous hoard. Michael and his family huddled under dampened blankets, wondering how the horses and drivers could tolerate the assaults.
As they traveled on, Michael explained how the land that had once been forest was cut clear of all hardwood trees. There were no oaks, elms, maples, sycamores or lindens, they had all been cut and carted away to make gunpowder. Only pinecone trees, twisted and gnarled by their ordeal with the woodcutters remained, growing out of control, without competition in the new forest.
Their first day of travel ended at a one-room roadhouse Michael had used when he was transporting saltpeter and Potassium to the gunpowder factory on the Perkiomen Creek. When their train arrived, they found it to be in a sad state of disrepair and tended by an old man. Michael knew him and greeted him by name and although he didn’t remember Michael, he invited them inside to warm themselves at the fire, prepare a meal and shelter themselves from the rain that was beginning to fall. As the drivers unloaded the food and drink from the wagons, Michael and the Innkeeper reminisced for a while about the days when the road carried gunpowder. “Nobody comes by here anymore but quarrymen,” he told them. “And they have no money.” The old man poked at the still hot coals in the fireplace as he spoke and coaxed the fire back to life as the intensity of the rainfall increased. Stella found a dry place near the fire, away from the drips coming through the roof and after a quick meal, fell asleep with her children cuddled to her. Michael stayed awake, feeling uneasy and ordered his workers to sleep with their weapons at the ready and posted one as a guard to watch over them as they slept.
The rain had stopped and a partial moon was peaking through the holes in the roof when Michael felt a hand nudge him. “Sir, there are horses coming.” Together, they moved among the drivers, rousing them and telling them to ready their rifles. The old man came into the hall carrying a lamp as Michael’s drivers were finding cover, priming their rifles and preparing for a fight. “No need for guns, Mister Fields. It’s the quarrymen. Nothing to worry about.”
Three teams of strong horses pulling wagons loaded with cobblestone pulled up alongside the Inn and stopped. Noisily, the drivers unhitched the teams and bedded them down for the night. Wearily they staggered into the Inn and made their way to the fire. They were wet, cold and tired. The old man met them and introduced them to Michael and his party. The drivers were groggy with exhaustion and after only a brief exchange of greetings, each collapsed into a heap and fell quickly asleep.
The old man stoked up the fire and settled down with Michael, “They are carrying granite from the Perkiomen quarry to Philadelphia. It is hard work with little pay.” Michael surveyed the sleeping bodies and went outside. Their wagons were overloaded, worn and in need of repair. The wheels were near breaking and the axles were warped and bent. He shook his head. How they could make the journey to Philadelphia without a breakdown was beyond him.
The quarrymen broke camp at first light and after a cold breakfast, hitched up their wagons and drove onward, leaving Michael’s party behind. The old man was waiting when Stella and the children woke and had hot porridge, biscuits and jam Michael’s Wagonmaster had supplied, ready. By mid-morning the teams were hitched and the wagons loaded. Stella and the children climbed on board, waved goodbye to the innkeeper and steeled themselves for the final leg of their journey. The train pushed on through a landscape that continued to deteriorate as they progressed toward their destination. Around them, the earth was scared with runoff gullies and weeds growing uncontrolled over fields of tree stumps. Small animals peeked out of the undergrowth at them and scurried away. As the sun reached its zenith, the wagon train approached the magazine where Michael had taken on a load of gunpowder. It was now abandoned but he recognized the landmarks that showed the way to the ridge overlooking the gentle flood plain of the Perkiomen Creek.
The wagons stopped and the drivers began unloading the gear and preparing for the mid-day meal. While they worked, Michael made his way down the steep valley guarding the ridge overlooking the valley. At the bottom, the tree line was distinct. The woodcutters had not come this far. He made his way up to the top of the ridge and climbed the guard stone. From the perch, he was able to survey the entire valley. The sight before him shook his soul. The monuments that had once graced the Lenapi city were shattered. Underbrush was growing wildly where long houses had once stood. The trees shading the river still stood and the great pyramid where two chiefs sat side by side was clearly visible. Farther north, the second pyramid shimmered gray and seemed to fade into the greens of the hillside beyond it. The Lenapi had tumbled some of the stones down the hillside but enough remained to identify the structure.
He stood atop the boulders at the entry to the valley and shook his head in sorrow, then his heart sank even further. Stonecutters were visible to the north. They were slashing their way toward Lenapihoking, taking the stones that fit their need and breaking what remained into blocks to pave the streets of Philadelphia. Piles of stone that had once been monoliths commemorating leaders and sages of generations long gone were being further chipped into blocks and readied for the carts. In places where Michael had witnessed Calik’s people breaking giant granite slabs, there was little left of the shattered stones but a pile of shards where the stonecutters had chipped blocks out of the rubble. Stone was being taken from the hillside, from tumbled down spring houses, from walls and ceremonial stones etched with the face of Masingua. The metallic ring of steel spikes cutting into granite echoed across the valley keeping time for the workers as they sang.
He whispered his protest and then cried out to the sky. “No!” His voice echoed across the valley. Stella had almost caught up to him when he cried out. She snapped her head around. “What’s the matter!” She was crouched, clutching the knife she kept, looking around for an enemy but finding none. “What is it,” she asked?
“Look at them. They haven’t gotten to the city yet but they are coming. Soon they will erase the last remnants of Lenapihoking!” His voice was heavy with sadness.
“What?” Stella looked up and down the valley then caught sight of the workers. “All I see are men working, making money. I don’t know a lot about quarrying but this seems to be a smoothly run operation.”
“Stella, this is Lenapihoking. The Indian city I told you about. The quarrymen are completing the destruction Calik’s people started.”
Stella stood still, trying to comprehend, slowly putting the outline of the city together in her mind. “Do you want to leave? We are not contracted to buy the share yet.”
“No. We will buy it and save what little is left of this once great city.” There was desperation in his voice but he calmed himself and started down the hillside with Stella following. As they approached the work gang, a huge man, holding the largest hammer Michael had ever seen stopped his work and wiped the sweat off his brow. Michael asked directions to the quarry owner and he pointed to a cabin set on the small creek running past the larger of the two pyramids. His voice rumbled, “That be the boss man’s cabin.” They made their way to the hut passing a circle of stones marking the seasons and followed a path along side a wall that had once been well traveled but was now an overgrown track.
Michael introduced himself and explained that he had come to examine the quarry operation before buying a share in the company. The owner was a frail looking man who put aside his paperwork and devoted his attention to the man he hoped would relieve him of his task and purchase the land from which he was harvesting stone.
Michael made some brief banal remarks and invited the owner to join his family and the drivers for the evening’s meal and to discuss a price for the purchase of the quarry and surrounding land. The owner’s eyebrows went up. He had not contemplated the prospect of selling the entire operation and the idea was one he knew he had to quickly grasp before the opportunity slipped away.
At the appointed hour he arrived at Michael’s campsite and after a meal heavy with whiskey, Michael began his negotiations with feigned fears that the original owners of the land, Indians, might return to reclaim their property. He sharply questioned the legitimacy of the man’s title, belittled the quality of the rolling stock carrying the stone to Philadelphia and steadily drove the value of the property down. By the time he was finished, the owner was thoroughly convinced that it was in his best interest to sell the quarry quickly, take what profit he might realize and run, allowing the new owner to face what ever challenges might come. The price they agreed upon convinced Stella that her husband was the best deal maker she had ever met.
The following morning, the owner departed and Michael began cutting back on the work by delaying repairs to a wagon that broke down. He then sold half the horses to nearby farmers and set the men to work on stones of lower quality and away from the remnants of Lenapihoking. Within the week, the workers angrily confronted him demanding that he either provide the tools they needed and allow them to cut the better stones or they would walk off the job. Stella stood behind him with a pistol at the ready, in case anyone got out of control. But she was barely able to keep herself from laughing as she listened to the nonsense Michael spoke. He was making himself seem totally incompetent and goading the workers to act upon their ultimatum. “You’re a fool, Mister Fields,” the Superintendent snarled. “You have no idea what you are doing and I for one will not work for you.” He threw down his sledgehammer, turned on his heel and walked away. One by one the entire crew followed suit and amid mutterings gathered their possessions and left.
Michael gathered Stella up in his arms. “That wasn’t so hard,” he said.
“I think you make a wonderful fool and a first class failure as a business manager.” There was a twinkle of mirth in her voice and they both broke out into open laughter. They had halted the sacrilege that had been in progress and saved what was left of the city, allowing its ruins to sit in silent testimony to the nation that had once occupied it.
Confident the Lenapi city would remain undisturbed till its rightful owners returned, Michael took the local farmers into his confidence and promised to pay them for information should anyone return and begin mining in the valley he owned. Pleased with himself, he returned to Philadelphia with his family, anxious to find an investment that would be honest and rewarding.
-*-
The docks of the city swelled with goods from around the world. Michael wrestled with the idea of putting to sea again and tossed it aside by the end of each day only to pick it up again the following morning. He met in the market place with merchants looking to sell and those looking to buy. He put their interests together, added his own price to transport the goods and decided finally to go back in business.
He found a worthy schooner at a reasonable price and once again took the helm. The cargo he took on in Philadelphia was farm produce from the surrounding countryside destined for New York City. The short voyage brought back memories but when they arrived at New York, the harbormaster levied a tax upon the cargo that sent Michael’s blood boiling. His mind reeled as he thought of how many cargoes he had carried and how many times he and Calik had avoided the tax collector. But the cargo for the return trip was the real prize of his journey, the farm produce was merely something to carry on the outward leg of the voyage, so he bit his tongue and paid the tax. For the return leg, he had contracted to carry metal of every description. Parts that Michael recognized from his days at the forge. Machine parts. Rifle barrels. Nails, bolts and pins of every description. Locks and chain. The cargo was everything an unshackled nation needed to expand and he felt a mixed feeling of guilt and satisfaction about carrying it. The goods would help his country develop but at the same time would force the Indian nations further west. He knew that the relationship between the United States and the Iroquois Confederacy had been injured by the war and was no longer what it once had been.
When they dropped anchor in Philadelphia harbor the ship was hailed by a cutter and ordered to receive a boarding party. Michael stood at the rail seething as another tax collector boarded his ship. He restrained himself and acted civil as the man presented himself and asked for the ship's manifest. Michael produced the documents and the man went over them, making notes as he went through the pages. When he was finished he made a brief inspection of the holds and presented the Captain with a tax bill. Michael took it, read the sum, crumpled it and threw it to the deck. He stepped up to the man and looked him in the eye. “Be gone, tax collector. Never cross my bow again or you shall regret the day you were born.”
The man protested and threatened but when Michael promised to see the man skinned alive, he scurried away. Stella picked up the crumbled paper, read it and gasped. “Are they mad? How can we make a profit with taxes like this. And levied by our own state!”
The prospect chilled Michael. The country he had smuggled for was now charging a tax larger than the king had ever designed. The states were having a tax war against each other, discouraging interstate trade. Driving the price of goods up and creating an atmosphere conducive to the resurrection of smuggling. The prospect of returning to a career in smuggling fascinated him. He could easily re-establish the secret coves and routes needed to move the goods and it would not be difficult to employ men to carry the contraband. He sat up late at night drinking and pondering. If he were to fall back into smuggling, his own actions would weaken and destroy the nation he had fought so hard to establish. He invited friends to join him for discussions and he brought up the situation whenever he was invited to the home of an influential person or when he met anyone in the local inns and pubs who would listen to his proposals. Where ever he spoke, his audience agreed that trade between the states was essential to the prosperity and the existence of the United States but as the situation stood, free trade was being strangled by out of control tax laws. The States were destroying trade between themselves with contradictory policies that discouraged unity. It was easy to see that if trade failed, the nation would wither and die.
-*-
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE POLITICIANS
SPRING,1787
The leaders of the War for Independence had tried twice to bring enough delegates from the individual States together to thrash out an agreement on interstate trade and tax. Both meetings had produced limited success and highlighted the need for an interstate agreement. The Congress that had been formed before the war was still operating under the “Articles of Confederation”, a document that had been patterned after the Iroquois Confederation. Since the end of the war they were finding that their body had no power to regulate trade or even speak with a unified voice. The need for a central government was becoming painfully clear but the only agreement they had been able to reach was to name New York City as the temporary capital of the United States. As a compromise it pleased no one, especially the residents of Boston and Philadelphia.
The first attempt at regulating trade had taken place the year before when Representatives of Maryland and Virginia met at Mount Vernon, the home of George Washington, to discuss interstate commerce. The results of the conference were dismal but it did prove that delegates from more states needed to be included in any discussion of common commercial problems if success was to be obtained. A second attempt at solving the nation’s trade problems was held in Annapolis, Maryland. This time, five states sent representatives but again the meeting came to no clear conclusion except that the Articles of Confederation needed to be revised. That February, Alexander Hamilton drafted an address to the individual states inviting them to attend a convention to be held in Philadelphia.
-*-
The talk of Philadelphia society that spring was that the Constitutional Convention would finally convene. Twelve states had responded that they would send delegates and at every dinner party, the conversation surrounding the convergence of so many dignitaries inevitably turned to the subjects they would be considering. Without fail, polite conversation turned to the form the government of the United States would take. Initially, Michael stood on the periphery of the discussions. He was not overly interested with the philosophical debates but as the arguments developed, he watching the direction they were taking with the same intensity he had portrayed before entering battle. He found himself particularly concerned with remedies to the evils he had suffered at the hand s of the British, the protections citizens needed against a government that might one day grow too powerful or corrupt. Arguments dealing with arrest and detention, protection from torture to obtain confessions and the rights of a person to be secure in his home became his interest. The circumstances that had taken away his peaceful life held special interest and although he was not a delegate to the conference, he was privy to the arguments that would be proposed and he reinforced and influenced those put forward by his old friend, Alexander Hamilton.
Alex had been elected by the citizens of New York to represent their interests at the convention and had taken up, a somewhat, permanent residence in Philadelphia. As always, he had the ear of George Washington, who had been elected President of the convention and while some complained that his access was unfair, Washington begrudged nothing to a soldier who had selflessly served on his staff for the duration of the war.
The convention was scheduled to convene in Carpenter’s Hall, the same building used in 1776 for the Convention that produced the Declaration of Independence. To some of the delegates, it seemed that history was repeating itself and harkened back memories to those wracking days of an excruciatingly hot July when they had finally come to the agreement that had set their country on the path of revolution and freedom. A few steps away was a tavern called The INDIAN QUEEN. It was a roomy establishment with a number of rooms on the upper level to house travelers and visitors. On the ground level there were two public rooms. The main entry opened into a vestibule and then to the left to the public room and right into a smaller room that included the stairway up to smaller rooms for travelers or private liaisons. At the far end of each room was a fireplace flanked by benches where visitors might warm themselves in winter and enjoy a draft in summer. Over the mantle hung a life size painting of an Iroquois woman holding and eagle feather in one hand and an ear of corn in the other. Heavy chestnut toped tables lined the walls where meals could be served to a large number of patrons at a single sitting. To the right was second large room with a fireplace and benches facing a bar stocked with wine, spirits and ales which flowed liberally every evening as people stopped in to hear the news and discuss events across the city and from out on the frontier.
In the weeks leading up to the Convention, Michael and Stella made it a point to take their evening meals at the INDIAN QUEEN and saw to it that they were introduced to the men who would design the nation's future. Michael’s notoriety brought the dignitaries to their table and eventually, Stella found herself cast into the role of hostess to every leader of the revolution from John Adams to George Washington.
As the date of the convention approached, the gatherings held at the Fields home were no longer an exposition of extravagance. They had evolved into informal sessions in preparation for the convention. Night after night, the lights in the library burned late and in the glow of hooded oil lamps, men sat in deep cushioned chairs, drinking whiskey, smoking cigars and belaboring the meaning of a single word. They debated the consequences of a sentence, the impact of tense and the motives that had propelled them to take up arms. They quoted the Indian Chiefs who had counciled with their leaders and forecast evil should they fail in their duty.
-*-
Michael shifted his weight to ease the numbness in his leg and surveyed the circle of men in his library. There were farmers, merchants and manufacturers, all with strong interests to protect. All were deeply concerned with the eventual form the Constitution would take. Their discussion centered on their self-interests and the specific responsibilities a government owed to its people.
Alex' voice was clear and strong as he stood and spoke. "For years, I have been pushing for a Constitution to bind these separate states into a whole. But, it seems an impossible task! There are so many contrary interests." His voice rose, "We are split asunder by rebellions within our own house. Shaysits on one side, farmers taxed beyond their ability to pay on another and the individual states themselves taxing commerce between themselves and desiring the power to impound on each other. We have won the war only to find ourselves at war with ourselves!"
Michael nodded as Alex spoke, the positions he pointed out were blatantly obvious but needed to be reiterated. He marveled at the way Alex spoke. He sipped again at the rum and sugared lime drink. Alex voice was so clear. His arguments were succinct. He thrilled at the way he pronounced each word. The meter was perfectly timed to the beat of his heart. "We must be united to resist the encroachments of the European powers. If we fall apart, the predictions of our Iroquois brethren will be forefulled. They have counciled us well and we must heed their warnings. We must stand united. If we fall into squabbling fiefdoms, Britain may very well return to pick up the pieces of her lost empire."
A murmur of assent went around the room, no one doubted his words. They all knew an agreement was inevitable but what form it would take they could only guess. William Livingston, from New Jersey, rose next and spoke of the heavy weight of responsibility placed upon the delegates. "We have been granted great latitude by our nation. In order to insulate us from the pressures of public debate and opinion we have been charged to conduct our deliberations in private. We must produce a constitution that will do justice to that license."
"Doesn't this privacy reek of high handed government," countered Nicholas Gilman, the delegate from New Hampshire?” Michael nodded but not in assent, the rum and lime had lulled him to sleep as the arguments raged around him. He woke in the wee hours of the morning to find the cluster of delegates still hunched over the table furiously writing and continuing their debates.
-*-
Invitations went out to every delegate and the cream of Philadelphia society. Benjamin Franklin, the premier diplomat and foremost philosopher of the nation was hosting a party to welcome the delegates to Philadelphia to wish them well in the forthcoming Convention. The Constitutional Convention was scheduled to convene within the week and it was his sincere hope that a party would alleviate some of the hostilities that had been growing among the delegates. He called it a “break the ice” ball and dedicated it to the delegates in the hope that they might overcome a few of the hurtles before them and hasten their work toward an agreement.
Michael and Stella dressed in their finest clothing and wore jewelry they had collected on their Caribbean voyage. The necklace around Stella's neck was emeralds and gold surrounding a crystal pendant engraved with a hawk, Michael’s PASSAIC FALCON. They arrived in their best Hansom carriage and were ushered through the front door and into the Library. Along the way Alex stepped out of the crowd and took Stella’s arm. “Good lady, you must meet Mister Franklin, our host.” Stella caught her breath, then laughed. “Alex,” she scolded, “Don’t do that! You scared me.” Michael laughed and shook Alex’ hand.
“Come,” he said. Meet the greatest philosopher, inventor and statesman of all time!”
“Captain Fields.” Benjamin Franklin shook his hand. “It is truly a pleasure and an honor to meet you. In France while I served as Ambassador, your name was continually mentioned. Is it true you were offered the Governership of a Caribbean island?” Stella and Michael smiled, “Yes, Mister Franklin, it is. But I declined. They required that we become French citizens.”
“Bravo,” said Franklin. He turned his attention to Stella. “Madam, I am charmed. I am looking forward to chatting with you latter this evening.” Stella took Michael’s hand as they walked into a large room where couples were dancing and joined them. As they spun around the floor she made it quite plain. “Michael, that man, Mr. Franklin, has a terrible reputation. He has had a long list of ladies who have shared his bed and I will not be another of them.”
“Another of them!” The noise of the ball hid his laughter as he allowed her to swirl around him as he steadied himself on his cane in the middle of the dance floor. When the dance ended, they politely applauded and moved among the delegates and their ladies, listening in on the knots of finely dressed gentlemen as they expressed their feelings. The ball was rapidly taking on the air of an informal session of the convention. The arguments being presented were the precursors of those that would be presented in the formal meetings. In the privacy of Mr. Franklin’s library, the delegates were free to test their arguments and gauge the merit and force of the opposition. They listened, proposed and modified their stands, took new points of view into account and prepared to present their objections to the formal session when it convened.
As Michael circulated in the crowd, he found himself drawn to a group of men roughly arguing the institution of slavery and it's place in the new nation. He felt his heart sink as men, dressed in silk and linen, talked blithely of human bondage. Leaning on his walking stick, he worked his way into the circle and inserted himself into the argument. "The meaning of our victory is freedom,” he said. “Not for a few men but for all. The end of slavery must be part and parcel of the document you produce. There must be words to insure the permanence of the rights we hold to be self evident." His quote of Jefferson brought a groan of anguish from Richard Spaight. “It is impossible. Blacks cannot be citizens. They cannot cope with decisions. Their lot in life is to labor,” he responded.
Michael’s blood boiled. “Your argument, Sir, is nonsense. Not only do you fail to attribute humanity to them but you relegate them without contemplation to a lesser status than human. A bill defining our human rights must be part of your Constitution. A bill that includes all men!” He looked each man in the circle in the eye. “Gentlemen, my Jersey upbringing introduced me to slavery at a young age. But servitude in Jersey was gentle compared to that in the Caribbean. The memory of a man named Kanu Baka and a ship loaded with human cargo stays with me and gives my conscience no option but to oppose slavery in his new country of mine."
The debate became heated and two young men sidled up behind him and began a banter of inane insults. Michael felt himself drawing near to the edge of violence. But he was not standing on the Afterdeck of the PASSAIC FALCON and he had no cannon to enforce his words. He had no position on the Committee and no voice in the convention to recount the horrors he had seen. Frustrated and angry, he attempted to disengage from the circle but as he drifted off to find Stella the two young men who had taunted him and mocked his argument slipped up beside him. “Hay, old man. What do you mean free the Nigras?” The young man’s tone had changed from taunting to threatening. The second man slid around behind Michael and spoke. “You are an insult to my eyes and you insult my ears by dismissing perfectly reasoned arguments as rantings. I demand you apologize.”
Michael gauged their demeanor. There was no arguing with the two. He looked to one and then the other and steeled himself. A big man with a full beard, wearing leather stockings and the deerskin coat of a frontiersman caught his eye from across the room. Michael knew he had an ally as the frontiersman assessed the situation and began moving toward him. The crowd around Michael seemed to have their backs to him as if no other person was interested in their conversation. The big man began circling behind the crowd, moving to position himself behind the man threatening Michael from his rear. As he moved into position, Michael began to speak.
“Young sir, mind your manners.” He spoke down to the youth. Taunting him back with a tone of dismissal. “You are conducting yourself like an arrogant ass and are more apt to find your self treated as an insolent child than the reasonable adult you fancy yourself.”
The man’s teeth clenched and he raised his hand to slap Michael’s face. Michael caught him by the wrist inches from his face and squeezed it till the hand turned white. He whispered, “It is time for you to go home, son. Before you get hurt.”
The second man pulled back his coat and drew out a long, wicked looking knife. The big man whispered in his ear as he caught his wrist. His words were like a rumble of thunder and the chill of cold steel at the back of his neck stopped him from brandishing the weapon. He stood perfectly still as he was ordered and watched the drama before him unfold.
The flash of a knife from under the coat of the young man facing Michael caused a woman to scream. Her terror stopped all activity in the room and directed everyone’s attention to the conflict in their midst. The silvery arc of his knife blade sweeping across Michael’s throat was parried by steel. The Indian knife was held across his forearm and pointed down, deflecting the steel blade in a shower of sparks and the screech of one blade across another. The thrust slashed Michael’s coat sleeve. He ignored it and countered with a backhanded thrust that split the man’s coat at the shoulder and took a small nip from his ear. Michael pivoted, smacked him in the ankle with his cane, kicked at his midsection and pushed him backward with a straight arm thrust. He fell to the floor and rolled over trying to get back to his feet but Michael kicked him squarely in the butt and sent him spread eagle onto the carpet. Michael was on him in a second. His knee was planted squarely between the man’s shoulders. He grabbed a hank of hair, pulled back and let out an Iroquois war cry. His knife was poised across the man’s throat. He struggled then went limp in surrender, swallowed hard and whimpered. Michael whispered in a voice that cut through the din. “Drop the knife or I’ll slit your throat ear to ear.” He pressed the knife a little tighter against the man’s neck. Women held their breath. Men dared not interfere. Heads turned from across the room to see what was going on. “Yes sir,” he gasped and the knife dropped to the carpet.
Michael stood and kicked the knife out of the circle growing around their confrontation to where his ally stood holding the second young attacker at bay. Benjamin Franklin came running into the room. “Here. Here,” he called. Michael stepped away from his attacker and let Franklin shoulder past him. The senior statesman grabbed the young man lying prone on the floor by the scruff of his neck, pulled him to his feet and dragged him over to where the Frontiersman held the second man. The big man relieved him of his charge and dragged at one and then the other, pulling them both to the front door and thrust them down the doorstep and onto the street. The two cast their most vile looks upon Franklin, who growled back at them, “Are you two mad? Do you know who you picked a fight with?” Their aggression faded to fear when he told them, “That was Captain Fields! Why don’t you just pick a fight with a Delaware war party! You would have had a better chance of walking away with your scalps! Now, be gone, young fools, and never darken my doorstep again.”
Michael sheathed his knife and pushed his way past the bystanders till he gripped the big frontiersman by his shoulders and shook him warmly. “Mac. By god, I thought you were dead.”
“Do ya think I would let you go down, Laddie! I’d swim a dozen rivers with you or for you. Oh, Its good to see you again, Lieutenant.” He paused, “Beg your pardon, sir. I don’t understand. Are you a navy Captain now?”
Stella arrived at his side and grabbed his arm. She was angry but pleased at the way Michael had deported himself. She examined the wound in his coat. “He only cut the fabric,” she said with relief, more to herself than to Michael.
“Stella,” he was bubbling like Andrea as they came into Chestnut Neck. “This is an old friend. Mister McIntyre, this is my wife, Stella.” The frontiersman bowed like a gentleman, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mamm.”
Franklin returned to the library in a huff. He was clearly distraught. The old man was exhausted from his efforts but came to offer his apology to Michael. “This should not have happened. Please accept my apology. But I must add,” he said with a sly wink. “Your reputation just became considerably larger, Captain Fields. And I do thank you for not shedding blood on my new carpets.”
Michael accepted the senior statesman’s apology and then excused himself. “I am getting to be an old man,” he said. “A little excitement and I am spent for the night. Please excuse me but I think we shall retire.”
Outside, while they waited for their carriage to be brought to them, Michael and McIntyre talked. “Colonel Hamilton asked me to come and watch your back,” he said. “It seems that his fear that his fiery influence on your formidable reputation would get you in trouble was justified.”
Michael grinned and thanked him as the carriage arrived.
“Before you leave, Lieutenant. I know of another friend of yours here in Philadelphia. He is lodged at the INDIAN QUEEN TAVERN and would be most pleased to see you again. I’ll take you, if you wish.”
Michael could hardly contain himself. “Another old friend! Could it be General Washington,” Stella asked as the carriage rode through the globs of light dressing the streets of Philadelphia? He had no answer and clung to her with barely concealed anxiety. McIntyre rode on horseback in front of their carriage, leading the way while inside, Michael related to Stella the story of how he and Mac had sailed down the Haerlem River to attack DRAGON and later defended General Washington’s army as they retreated from Fort Lee. By the time they arrived at the tavern, she was impressed by the man’s loyalty and courage and felt at ease with the prospect of having him visit their home.
They entered the smoke filled tavern and immediately the owner came to Michael and greeted him. “Captain Fields. Misses Fields. Welcome. Your usual table?”
“Have yourself a drink, Lieutenant. I mean Captain. I’ll fetch yer friend and bring him to ya.”
Michael was lazily crushing lumpy, brown sugar into a wedge of lime at the bottom of his glass when he felt a hush come over the patrons in the Inn. He paused from his mixing and looked up. McIntyre was entering the room followed by four Sachem, Chiefs wearing falcon and hawk feathers and wampum proclaiming their deeds. Michael recognized the Aquacknunck, he had played La Cross with him in happier times. Following were an Iroquois and an Onondaga, men of ferrioucus countenance who bore the scars of privation and war. Michael stopped crushing the lime. Tobacco smoke in the air obscured the face of the Delaware as he entered the room. He was also scared and wearing his hair long with a single falcon feather woven into it. He wore a red shirt, leather stockings and a wampum belt. Michael murmured. “It can’t be.” Stella looked to McIntyre and back to Michael. He was rising to his feet. His eyes riveted on the Indians walking toward him. “Calik,” he cried!
The Delaware Sachem stopped in mid-stride and looked around trying to find where the voice had come from. His eyes focused on Michael standing behind a table. “Sua Klanta?” He paused letting his eyes confirm what his heart knew. “Sua Klanta!” The two men met at the middle of the room and embraced like brothers.
Michael assayed his friend and shook his head. The lines on Calik’s face had been etched deep by worry. On his shoulder and chest he carried a long scar, a war wound attesting to the battles he had fought. Calik saw his old friend now limped. He looked into Michael’s dead eye and held his hand that was scarred and withering. He shook his head and whispered, “Sua Klanta, my friend.”
Michael responded. “Calik, son of Tangami Kan, my friend and a Delaware chief. Come sit with me. Share some kanicanick with me and tell me of the battles you have fought and the road you have taken to bring you here tonight.”
They spoke late into the night. Both had led warriors into battle. Both had suffered wounds. Both had lost a wife to the British. Both had paid greatly for the victory they had sought and won. Both were respected by their countrymen.
“What brings the Delaware to Philadelphia,” Michael asked.
“The Delaware Nation has been offered statehood in the Yang Quis Union. I have been asked by my people to represent their interests at this convention.”
Michael mulled over his words. “Calik. You say the Convention belongs to the Yang Quis. Yet you are here.”
The Sachem nervously glanced back and forth among themselves and whispered in Iroquois. Michael responded in Aquacknunk, “The pain in your hearts shows on your faces.” He looked each one in the eye. “Honored Chiefs. Warriors. Leaders. Tell me what troubles you.”
They looked to each other and then to Calik. He was their spokesman. “Sua Klanta.” His voice carried emotion. “We have spoken before of broken promises and stolen lands.” Michael took a drink of his rum, fearing what he was about to hear. “When last we met, I was leading my clan west, away from the Yang Quis war. But we found your fight all around us. We were trapped. We were forced to fight or be slaughtered. The war on the frontier was vicious. There were no rules. Morality was suspended for the sake of vengeance. Raiding parties attacked villages and murdered women and children. Reprisal followed reprisal till no one knew who had committed the worse crime. By the end of the war, none were left who had not tasted the blood of their enemy.” His hands shook as he spoke. “Now, the Yang Quis leaders speak of a union and call upon the Delaware nation to be a part of it but only if we reject the Iroquois Confederation.”
Michael felt his stomach turn cold with anger. “This is no way to treat with our brothers! If you are invited to take part in our confederation, there should be no qualifications.”
“Sua Klanta.” Calik’s voice was a whisper. “We are here to buy time for our people.” The Iroquois spoke in halted English. “We are broken. Too many times we have fought the yang Quis wars. Now we are too weak to stand. No longer is our enemy a king beyond the sea. Now there is a new empire at our lodge post.” As the Calik fell silent the Onandaga spoke. “We know the treaties will not be respected. Decisions have already been made. The lands north of the Ohio River will be divided and made into Yang Quis states. There is no provision to protect land held by Onandaga, Iroquois or Cherokee. We have shed our blood in the battles of the Yang Quis and it has profited us none. Our villages have been burned. Our women have been murdered. Our children have died for a treaty the Yang Quis no longer honor. The six nations are no longer strong. No longer can we stand against the Yang Quis Confederation.” He stopped and the Iroquois spoke. “We have been betrayed.”
The words bit into Michael’s heart. He knew it was true and he had no words to sooth the anger in the heart of his friend. Calik spoke again, his voice held to a low conspiratorial level. “We tell you this only because you are my brother. Tell no one else. While the Yang Quis delegates talk, the clans are gathering. Land will be sold and we shall follow the sun away from the Yang Quis land. Perhaps we can ally with nations far to the west. Nations still strong enough to resist the power of this new confederation. If they will heed our warning.”
Michael was hesitant as he put forth his plea. “Is there no hope for an alliance between our peoples? A new world where men and women are judged by what they do not by what they are born?” Around the table the eyes of the Indians relayed the truth. There was no hope. “The time of betrayal has begun,” stated the Onandaga chief. “I foresee evil for my people. More Yang Quis come to our villages every day. They are not the same as those who were here before the war. They are like dry leaves. They have no roots. They see only wealth they may steal without punishment.”
The Indians rose together. Michael sat and looked up at them. He had not expected them to leave. He grasped at Calik's hand and held it. “Sua Klanta, we shall attend your congress. But if we come to words. They are not mine. If we meet it shall not be known that we are brothers. For your sake.”
“No, Calik!”
“There are no more words,” he said, “only deeds. When the Congress ignores us, we shall leave. Fare well, my friend. Masingua has been gracious. I have seen you again when I thought you dead. But again, our paths must part. I cannot foresee what awaits us.”
Michael was sullen on the way home. As the carriage carried them through the cool moonlight of a pleasant spring evening, he gritted his teeth. The Indian nations were to be displaced. He had seen it yet he had denied it to himself. The subject had been ignored in every conversation he had witnessed! The Iroquois Confederation had been destroyed in the war and was no longer capable of fighting for the land that had been theirs for generations. All that was left was the land of their ancestors, to the west, and that was where they had chosen to move.
Michael felt powerless. He could do nothing. The matter would not even be considered! But there was another battle to be fought. Little had yet been said of the slaves. He remembered Sergeant Leopold. He had been a slave in Jersey and had worked his way to being freemen with rights and responsibilities. But the stories he had heard of slavery in the southern colonies was more like the slavery he had witnessed in the Caribbean.
A new battle had been thrust upon him and he had made up his mind to join in the fray. His fortune was a weapon more powerful than any cannon mounted on the PASSAIC FALCON’s deck and he would wield it as he had his fleet. Those who felt the same as he and supported his view would find impediments in their path removed. He would smooth their road. He would pay their bills, buy the materials they needed and even supply workers to ease their burden. Stella watched the smile spread across his face. "Michael, after what you have heard and done this night, how can you smile?”
The street lamps outside the carriage lit a twinkle in his eyes as they passed from one to the other. Stella wound her arm inside his and moved close to him. He smiled and hummed under his breath, "Yes, I shall have influence on this Convention.” His hand trembled noticeably as he took hers. I pledge my fortune to the end of slavery in our new nation."
-*-
Summer, 1787
The mild weather of spring gave way to the hottest summer in memory. Many compared it to the heat of that fateful summer of 1776 and gestured to Carpenter’s Hall where that success was being reenacted. Eleven years before, some of the same men who had gathered to declare war had returned to hammer out an agreement to bind the States together. The members of the Convention came as representatives of individual states. To each, the sovereignty of their state came before any surrender of sovernty to a central government. They believed fervently in their goals and poured their hearts into their arguments as the form of a new central government slowly took shape.
Inside Carpenter’s Hall, beads of sweat stood on every brow and neck. The windows were open but the shutters closed in an effort to maintain their arguments in confidence. The temperature rose as Alexander Hamilton rose to present another plan to the members. Perspiration soaked his shirt, every delegate had removed his coat. Some had unbuttoned their shirts and were fanning themselves with copies of the motions.
Michael sat on the shaded lawn of the INDIAN QUEEN TAVERN crushing brown sugar into a slice of lime and listening to the words that carried out of Carpenter’s Hall. What he heard of an impending ordinance to settle the lands north of the Ohio River cut his heart. There was no mention of the Iroquois Confederation. He sat sullen as the messenger he had dispatched returned to tell him that the room occupied by the delegates of the Iroquois Confederation was empty.
He paused and listened. He recognized the speaker. Alex words rang clear through the hall and carried to the people surrounding the building. His words were precise but the gathering would have none of his logic. As he spoke, jeers and shouts erupted. The members wanted nothing to do with the proposition to elect a chief executive and representative body for life. In the stifling, unmoving air of the closed room the delegates were on their feet again and shouting.
George Washington banged his gavel to no avail, he was beginning the rue the day he had agreed to be President of the Convention. He pounded the gavel on his desk till the handle broke and the head spun off into the increasingly raucous crowd. He called for order but the members were now shouting at each other, thoroughly engaged in their own individual debates. At the back of the hall, two men were shoving at each other, threatening a fistfight, while their clerks tried to separate them. The senior delegate from Massachusetts rose, “We will not participate in this farce,” he shouted! Someone shouted back at him inviting the delegation to leave and after a moment’s conference among themselves, they stormed out of the hall trampling copies of the minutes and other amendments underfoot.
Tempers, aggravated by the heat and humidity, flared. William Johnson, from Connecticut, and Richard Spaight had to be separated before they came to blows. Benjamin Franklin, a spry eighty-three before the convention, now had to be carried in a sedan chair to and from the session. The heat was telling on him. Alex slumped back into his seat and cradled his head in his hands. George Washington stood grim faced watching the fruits of the revolution turn sour. The day's work was finished. No more would come of their debate. Washington shook his head and massaged the knot growing in the muscles at the back of his neck. The Convention had come to near chaos three times this day but at least they had come to the end of the agenga without any of the delegates killing each other. In place of his shattered gavel, he picked up a book and slammed if down on his desk and called out adjourning the convention for the day.
-*-
That evening Alex dined at Michael's home with a dozen of the other delegates. Andrea, now nearly as tall as her mother and baring a striking resemblance to her, had blossomed into a delightful young lady of poise and charm. To her parents dismay, she had discovered the magic her charms worked on the young men who visited their home and was practicing her techniques on Alex over the meal. But this evening she could tell he was deeply troubled. Her best efforts to elevate his spirits with clever stories had failed. Undeterred, she tried to draw him into conversation with a gently veiled inquiry as to the events of the day's meeting. He seemed too deeply lost in thought for light conversation. She touched his hand. ”Mister Hamilton.” He raised his eyes. “What is it that has you so troubled?”
He drew a deep breath. “Forgive me, Andrea. Michael. I’m not very good company tonight. The days events have left me upset.” He directed his attention back to Andrea. “You asked of the day.” Beneath barely suppressed anger told her how he had stood before the Convention and presented his plan only to be rebuked. Bitterness rose in his voice as he told how the representatives had insulted him, “They rejected my work,” his voice quivered, “it was unacceptable to all. Gouverneur Morris went so far as to call it an indiscretion. An indiscretion! Do you believe it? They think I want to reinstitute the monarchy. They think my plan will crown an American king! I can tolerate their insults no longer, so I am leaving." Silence hung over the meal. "I am leaving the Convention and returning to New York," he said in a flat voice with his head hung.
Michael exploded, "Alex! Desertion? You have faced worse fire. Words cut but they cannot kill. Bind your wounds and engage the enemy! You are needed here." But his plea went unheard and the following morning Alexander Hamilton departed for New York leaving the Convention behind.
-*-
The Meetings of the Constitutional Convention continued in the strictest of confidence. But not so confidential that Michael was unaware of the direction the debates were taking. The matters of the Indian nations had become second thoughts and Calik had disappeared from the forum as he had predicted. At the end of each day, delegates met at the INDIAN QUEEN TAVERN and Michael circulated among them. He mingled with them and supported those whose proposals he identified with. He set himself to uncover their needs and paid to have them met. Soon he learned of the privations the members were suffering in exchange for their time and diligence. To his dismay, he learned that hardly a shilling had been paid by the State of New Jersey to cover the expenses of their delegates. Michael quietly sought out William Paterson and learned he also was about to leave the convention. He had a new wife and a business to attend. William Livingston was on the verge of bankruptcy and also about to desert the convention! David Brearly and Jonathan Dayton were both financially strapped, their farms and business might be lost if they did not return to tend them. Michael urged them to stay on and assured them their debts would be paid. "The business of the nation is too important,” he assured them, “to allow a small amount of money to frustrate it."
Michael put himself to lightening the burdens of the Jersey delegates. He arranged for hired farm hands to go to their farms, ready to work, their wages paid. Bills for the rooms occupied by the Jersey Delegates and their meals were paid in full. The livery stable tending their horses received instructions to groom their mounts well and provide carriages for their daily transportation. Tavern bills disappeared, as did those from the haberdasher and cobbler. Wherever the Jersey delegates turned in the city, they found they needed only ask and their needs were met, without question of payment.
But beyond the special attention Michael paid to the New Jersey delegation, it was the needs of the anti-slavery delegates that became his personal concern. If a carriage were needed to take a delicate to a meeting or conference, if a tavern bill went unpaid, when writing materials were in short supply, Michael's fortune was at call to alleviate the need. He believed their voices were desperately needed if the new nation were to become truly free.
-*-
On a sweltering July night, outside the livery where the carriage belonging to William Livingston was kept, the driver waited patiently. A small crescent of the moon shed little light into the alley and the oil lamp at the end of the street did nothing to allay his fears as three young men approached him out of the gloom. He immediately felt ill at ease as their swaggering walk and whispered remarks betrayed evil intent. He shrank back attempting to blend into the shadows. The flash of a knife being drawn from it's scabbard gave him final cause to flee but as he turned to run, another man stepped out of the shadows behind him and blocked his path. Slowly, malevolently the circle of men backed him up against the carriage.
"I'll take your money, old man," said the biggest of the four.
His companions roughly went through his pockets and finding little slapped him across the face. The old man quaked with fear as the big man thrust his face into his.
"You are a worthless piece of dung. We have no use for you or your Mr. Livingston in Philadelphia. Take a message to him, Go home before something dreadful happens."
The big man drew the point of his knife across his helpless victim's throat and brought it up along his cheek leaving a trickle of blood behind. At the corner of his eye he stopped and wove it back and forth in front of him. The terrified man pleaded, "Please don't kill me".
"I'm not going to kill you. I'm just going to make my message clear."
The old man tried to shrink back and clenched his eyes closed. A muffled whimper of fear passed his lips as he waited for the hot fire of the knife to cut his flesh.
The sound of footsteps and knuckles on flesh intruded into the tight circle. The attackers were pulled off him and he slid to the ground, unable to move. His legs felt like jelly as he cringed on the ground and a wave of young men swept over his attackers.
A huge shadowy figure took the big man's knife from him with a twist that sounded like his arm broke. A Fist drove into his midsection and he dropped to the ground only to be hauled up by the hair and punched in the face repeatedly. His companions flailed wildly at the interlopers but as fighters, they were severely outclassed. Their punches were parried and blocked while a flurry of hickory sticks pounded them to the ground and changed their bullying aggression to pleas for mercy.
The bullies were allowed to escape into the night as the interlopers hooted and cat called after them, chasing them away from their victim. Two of the rescuers returned and helped the old man to his feet. They dusted off his cloths and inquired of his injuries. The largest of the men returned the few coins the attackers had taken and with a tip of his raccoon cap, added a few Spanish Dollars and bid the old man, “Good night.” Like Indians, or spirits, they melted into the night calling to each other with whistles that sounded like birdcalls.
In a shadow away from the scene, the men converged on a carriage waiting in a dark alley. The large man approached and whispered, “Everything is well, Lieutenant.” A cloaked figure inside the carriage handed him a pouch of coins. “Thank you, Mister McIntyre.” Michael opened the door of the carriage and stepped out. He put his weight on his walking stick and breathed raggedly. “Pay each man generously,” he said. “And promise them more of the same for their continued vigilance.” McIntyre stood aside as Michael shook the hand of each man in the party. “Mark me well,” he rasped. McIntyre trembled, the man he remembered was now old before his time and weak with fever. “Nothing evil is to befall the Jersey delegates. They are to be watched and protected.” Each of the young men voiced his allegiance, then stood silent in the dark as the figure limped the few steps back to his carriage and climbed in.
-*-
AUGUST 6, 1787
The Committee of Detail presented another version of the Virginia Plan. This time they were proposing a heavy import tax on slaves and representation at the ratio of five slaves to three free men. The Jersey delegates groaned and shook their heads. They could do no better. The end of slavery could not be won immediately but the compromise position was better than the continued antagonism. They preferred it to be carried rather than rejected and although they were not happy, they were relieved none stood to oppose the compromise.
Dinner at the Fields house that evening was a mixture of victory and defeat. The end to the importation of slaves into America had been set for 1808, twenty years in the future. Half a life time away but at least a date had been set. James Madison, the delegate from Virginia, and one who had signed the Declaration of Independence, stood and proposed a toast. “All men are not free but we have taken steps on a road that will bring freedom to all. Every master of slaves is born a petty tyrant,” he warned. “This evil institution brings the judgment of heaven on a country."
"Here, here,” Michael started to speak but felt too weak to pronounce the words. He coughed, “We have not won what we wanted and we have deserted our brothers.” He breathed hard. “The Iroquois Confederation. They have gone.” He stopped to catch his breath. “We hoped slavery would be outlawed. Not even those who hate it most..." He was panting and couldn’t finish the sentence.
Doctor Eddington rose from the table and summoned two servants to help Michael from his seat and into the library. Stella was at his side as he was taken to a comfortable chair. The doctor held Michael's wrist for a moment and sat down on the sofa opposite him.
"Your fever is up again.” The guests milled around and slowly drifted out till only the doctor and Stella remained. “There is little I can do Michael. The infections are growing around the pieces of metal I could not get. I can try again and perhaps dig some more out but I can do nothing to stop the infections. More surgery may slow the infections down but eventually they will spread through your body and kill you. Michael,” he hesitated and moved closer to his ear and whispered. “You have only a few weeks left. It is time to make peace with your maker."
-*-
SEPTEMBER 16, 1787
Alexander Hamilton entered the room where Michael lay. The odor of decay and rot permeated the room as the representative of New York and friend of Captain Fields entered to pay his last respects. Stella was sitting in a straight back chair between an open window and their bed. She touched his hand and told him he had a visitor. Michael's eyes fluttered open and he smiled as Andrea ushered his old friend into the room.
"I have returned to Philadelphia to rejoin the Convention,” he said. Michael smiled and asked Andrea to make him a drink of the rum, sugar and lime he favored and for the next hour, the two talked of good times and victories till Michael slipped back into a quiet sleep. Alex took the empty glass from his hand, refilled it with water and placed it on the nightstand. He drew a deep breath of fresh air at the window and left the room. Outside, he took Stella's hand and kissed it. His words were indistinguishable from the sobs that veiled them and as he brought her hand to his lips, a tear dampened her cuff.
The following day, Alexander Hamilton, as the representative of the State of New York penned his name to the Constitution of the United States of America.
-*-
SEPTEMBER 29, 1787
Michael sat in his chair, covered with a blanket despite the warmth of the late summer evening, and watched the fireworks over Philadelphia. The city was celebrating. The nation was celebrating. Enough States had signed the Constitution to bind it on all. A deep joy of satisfaction coursed through his mind and body as he sipped deeply on the rum and lime while he watched the exploding sky rockets.
He looked up as Stella came into the darkened room. She touched his hand and told him The New Jersey delegates had come to visit and turned up the oil lamp as they shuffled into the room. Each was stunned to silence, unaware of how ill their benefactor had been. Haltingly, they spoke and thanked him for his support over the term of the Convention. Michael nodded graciously and then, near delirium, regaled them to protect the freedom of the cities from an overbearing government. His voice grew strong as he warned them, "Government by its very nature is prone to tyranny. Keep watch for the signs of corruption." The exertion depleted his energy and he slipped back to sleep as the fireworks lit the sky outside his window and illuminated the room playing on his nearly skeletal face. He had withered away to almost nothing during the summer. There was scarcely any meat left on his bones. The delegates said their farewells, they could see he was in his last hours and quietly slipped out as he nodded off to sleep.
The Fire works peaked into a crescendo, booming like artillery over the Delaware River Valley and Michael stirred. He felt the swell of the sea underfoot and thought of the PASSAIC FALCON he had sailed with Calik. A smile came to his face as red, white and blue showers of sparkling stars drifted over the Philadelphia sky. Artillery boomed in the distance saluting the new nation and he called out, “Count Rhordon, hold your fire till we come high on the swell.” His voice was so weak no one heard him. “Faith. Tell your father you will take the last run today.” His breathing slowed. “Christopher. He is so beautiful.” Slowly the glass of lime, sugar and rum slipped from his fingers and as the new nation began its life, Michael T. Fields slipped into everlasting sleep.
Stella knew he was dead, his heart had just slowed to the point where it beat no more. She had been expecting it. The infections had finally overwhelmed him, poisoned his blood and in the end killed his heart. She knelt by the chair and whispered a silent prayer for his departed soul. Tears trickled down her cheek as she held his cold hand and stroked his now still face. His battle for freedom was finally over and whatever reward or punishment he had earned would be meted out by his maker.
Stella had prepared herself for this moment, knowing it was inevitable but now that it was upon her, she had to call upon the deepest well of courage she had saved for this final task. Slowly, she rose and bent over the mortal remains of her husband, friend and lover. She whispered a last farewell and folded his hands in his lap and pulled the blanket up to his chin.
At the foot of the stairs the Jersey delegates were chatting with Alex and half a dozen of their friends. Their eyes turned to Stella as she came out of the room and stood at the top of the stairs. From among them, Andrea stepped forward, a tear ran down her face. Slowly, she walked up the stairs and took her mother's hand and held her as she cried.
THE END
