Guns of Liberty (12 page)

Meeks noticed Daniel, Kate, and the reverend. He bowed to the mistress of the house and tousled the hair of the boy, an act which caused the youth immediate displeasure. The gaunt Englishman followed the cobblestone walkway through Mrs. Albright’s flower beds and met the threesome halfway.

Daniel glowered at Chaney and Tolbert and rested a hand on the butt of his pistol. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He looked around and found Kate studying him. She seemed confused and even a bit alarmed at the way he seemed to recognize the strangers at the gate. She shifted her gaze to take in the horsemen. She had the uneasy feeling she had met some of them before. But where? She glanced directly at Black Tolbert.

The Tory renegade chuckled, as a leer split his features. Kate shuddered. How did she know him?

“Good Sabbath, Reverend Albright,” Meeks said.

“And good Sabbath to you, sir,” Albright replied, shaking the man’s bony hand.

“I and my companions have come to hang a lantern from the liberty tree and offer the strength of our arms to the cause of freedom.” Meeks’s expression never altered as he offered Daniel his hand and bowed once again to Kate.

“Well spoken, Mr.—”

“Meeks,” said the officer. “I am a teacher. And my companions, simple men of the soil. But willing to stand and fight.” The major gestured toward the house. “I was told you might have a room to let for some of these good lads.”

“I’m sorry. We have nothing save for ourselves and these, our guests,” Albright explained. “There ought to be room at one of the taverns. Or perhaps you could camp on the Green. Many families will be there.”

Meeks absentmindedly fumbled with the patch over his left eye. His usually sharp features relaxed and he appeared for a moment totally lost in thought. Then he flashed a disarming smile.

“Most unfortunate. Still, what better roof over one’s head than the Lord’s own starry sky.” Meeks patted a coat pocket. “And I’ve a few coins aching to be spent at the local tavern.”

“The Boar’s head has a most delectable array of spirits,” Albright said, keeping his voice low to avoid his wife’s disapproval. He clapped Meeks on the shoulder.

Meeks bristled at such familiarity but held his temper in check.

“The Boar’s Head it is. Perhaps I’ll see you there later, good Reverend, and you, sir.” He focused on Daniel. “I didn’t catch the name, but you have the look of a man familiar with war. Will you be casting your lot with the sons of liberty?”

“I work the forge and bend iron,” Daniel said. “That is my calling.”

“Dangerous work. A man could get burned.”

“Only if he’s careless.”

Meeks laughed softly and then, bowing again to Kate, added, “By your leave,” and started back toward the front gate. He mounted his charger and rode off toward the center of town, the folds of his cloak streaming behind.

The horsemen turned from the picket fence and followed Meeks with a precision that decried their supposedly rustic roots. Only Black Tolbert lingered to walk his horse along the front of the house. He drew close enough for Kate to recognize the lust in his red-rimmed eyes. Daniel stepped in front of her, placing himself between Tolbert and the young woman.

The Tory turned and led his mount back toward the center of town.

“I know him.” Kate tried to make sense of it and failed. “I know his eyes,” she added, perplexed. She reached out and took Daniel’s hand. She felt safe, her hand in his—yes, safe with someone she could trust.

J
OSIAH MEEKS FOUND THE
Boar’s Head to his liking. It was a large place, built of stone and dominating a shady plot of ground near the south end of the Green. An imposing structure, it boasted three rooms on the ground floor, with tables set in cool, shadowy corners where men might confer quietly—or in this case shout. Today, the Boar’s Head held a noisy crowd of plowmen, tinkers, and woodsmen drawn to Springtown either out of patriotic fervor or simple curiosity and a need for a little excitement. No matter, revolutionary fever was infectious and by midafternoon had spread throughout the gathering. Ale flowed freely and fueled brave songs, brave words, and dreams of glory. A nation waited to be wrested from the British domination, and such men as these were just the ones to do it.

Meeks eased back in his chair, sipped his wine, and listened to the talk around him with a bemused expression on his face. Words were no match for cold British steel, as this rabble would one day discover, to their great dismay. He had chosen a table in the rear of the tavern, the better to watch these rebels. Will Chaney sat to his left and Black Tolbert on the right, his ferret-eyed stare fixed on the buxom tavern wench who carried a pewter pitcher of ale from table to table, filling the tankards as she went and pocketing in her apron the coins left in payment.

Tobacco smoke curled to the ceiling. Men and women sauntered among the tables, exchanging news with strangers, eager for word of the happenings in Philadelphia, New York, and Boston. They cast their shadows upon stone walls adorned with racks of pewter plates and tankards, hunting rifles and powderhorns, and an occasional painting left by a local artist as payment in lieu of money for an outstanding bill.

The three men seated across the table from Meeks were new arrivals he had taken on in Philadelphia. The oldest of the lot was an Irish soldier of fortune, Corporal Padraich O’Flynn, a jovial, ruddy-cheeked Irishman in the direct employ of Nathaniel Woodbine. O’Flynn had a hearty appetite, one he was only too happy to appease at the British agent’s expense. A plate of pork ribs held his interest this afternoon.

The other two men, Al Dees and Mose Wiley, were young hotheads eager to prove their worth to Josiah Meeks. They both came from Tory families in Connecticut who had already suffered at the hands of patriots. Barns had been burned and livestock run off. Both Wiley and Dees had resolved to avenge their families’ losses, so when Nathaniel Woodbine put them in touch with Meeks the two had jumped at the chance to serve him.

Dees at nineteen was fair-haired, nonchalantly tilting back on the rear legs of his chair. His thumbs were hooked in the wide leather belt around his waist. His linsey-woolsey blouse was unlaced to midchest. Before joining Meeks’s command he and Mose Wiley had been anxious to strike at the rebels but lacked a direction or a plan. The British agent had promised them both that the hour was at hand and he’d lead the young men in a bold strike against these rebels. Dees was more than ready.

Mose Wiley watched O’Flynn work through the stack of ribs and helped himself to one from the platter. O’Flynn glanced up and gave the eighteen-year-old a sharp look as if Wiley had just stolen some of the Irishman’s personal property. Wiley grinned and licking his greasy fingers promptly gnawed the meat from the rib and tossed the bone onto O’Flynn’s plate.

“You’re a brash young pup.” O’Flynn glowered. “Best I put you in your place if you aim to run with this pack.”

“At your pleasure.” Wiley slipped a dagger from his boot sheath. “But mind you, this pup has fangs.” Double-edged steel glinted in the confines of the corner.

Tolbert chuckled. He enjoyed a good fight, and he was curious as to the mettle of these recent arrivals. Chaney grinned, and his mean eyes glittered. A brawler by nature, he just liked to see blood flow and didn’t care whose.

“Cut him, Mose,” Al Dees said, keeping his voice low. “Notch his ear.”

“Put the knife away,” Meeks interjected. He leaned his elbows on the table, shadow and light painting patterns across his hooked nose and gaunt cheeks. His single eye, like some baleful jewel, gleamed with a chill menace. Wiley tucked the knife back into his boot. O’Flynn shrugged and returned his attention to the food.

Tolbert tore a chunk of bread from the round loaf before him and began to sate his own hunger. “You think Danny boy caught your meaning?”

“McQueen is no fool. Gullible, yes, but not a fool. He understood,” Meeks said. His gaze swept the room, pausing for but a moment on face after face of these rebels young and old, working themselves up for war. They could probably fight well enough, but the colonists had no history behind them, no military tradition, nothing like the army and naval might of Great Britain. This mob would need a leader to mold them together. Perhaps they’d have one soon. But Major Josiah Meeks intended to see such a leader was shortlived. The colonists would need weapons, too: powder and shot, muskets and rifles. There was a supply cached in this area, according to Woodbine. But the merchant didn’t know its location. The hidden weapons must be found and destroyed. Meeks considered himself just the man for the job. He dabbed the sweat from his brow with a silk kerchief.

“A warm summer,” young Dees observed dryly.

“It will get warmer.” Meeks settled in his chair, raised his tankard, and added, “God save the king.”

Daniel McQueen had never seen Sicilians before, but their gypsylike lifestyle appealed to him. Families like the Yaquerenos and the Ferillis were free as the wind. They were itinerant craftsmen, knife makers, swordsmiths, and silverworkers who had come to the colonies to ply their trades. Daniel had been skirting the Green when he spied the ornately painted panel wagons and the swarthy Sicilian tinkers who had set up displays of trinkets and finely crafted daggers and knives whose workmanship was unmatched in Daniel’s experience.

Dressed in their blousy shirts, vests, and pantaloons tucked in ankle boots, the men paraded their skills and hawked their wares while the dark-eyed women busied themselves with domestic chores. One of the women paused in her work to entertain a small herd of curious farm children. Much to their delight she produced a pair of wooden puppets whose antics left the boys and girls helpless with laughter. Several adults stood in awe of a young man who juggled five brightly colored balls and then switched to daggers whose keen blades and shiny brass hilts shimmered in the sunlight.

“You are fascinated by our knifemakers?” Barnabas Schraner spoke in a gruff-sounding voice at Daniel’s side. The Highlander wasn’t surprised. He had figured at least one of the Schraners would seek him out. He was relieved it was the eldest son and not Henk.

“Have they come as patriots or performers?” Daniel asked.

“Freedom is the life’s blood of their kind. They will fight to preserve it. And aid in other ways, too.”

Daniel found the last of Barnabas’s statement rather perplexing; the meaning escaped him.

“Giuseppe Ferilli is the patriarch of one family. He’s fathered only girls, an even half dozen. As for Pietro Yaquereno, fortunately his Anna has only borne him sons. A good arrangement, yes?” Barnabas chuckled. He averted his eyes from the juggler; he had a weak stomach when it came to a man about to lose an eye or accidentally slit his own throat.

“Never have I seen such knives,” Daniel said in open admiration for the skill of these artisans. Glancing at their paneled wagons, he wondered what other handiwork they kept hidden from the public. The wagons themselves were impressive; great, heavy conveyances drawn by teams of stout oxen. These Sicilians most assuredly carried their homes with them wherever they went. Despite the outward boisterousness of this lot and their obvious desire to turn a quick profit, the Ferillis and Yaquerenos certainly valued their privacy, for at least three young men in ornately stitched waistcoats stood guard by the wagons and kept the crowd from pressing too close. Even the farm children were shooed away. Two more of the craftsmen stationed at the rear of the last paneled wagon appeared to be engaged in a heated argument. Daniel shifted his stance and recognized the faces of the animated pair, although at first Daniel couldn’t believe his eyes. The young one was Tim Pepperidge and the man bearing the brunt of his complaints was none other than Lieutenant Peter Crowe, the militiaman from the inn. Crowe no longer wore the colors of the Virginia militia but had traded his rank for the humble garb of Sicilian tinker. Now, why had he done that, and what had caused the wagon they were standing by to sit so heavy on its axles? More guns and powder for the Daughters of Phoebe’s barn? That would explain the presence of the two rebels standing guard.

“Best you cut Henk a wide berth,” Barnabas said. “You shamed him, loosing ol’ Gideon on him. Seein’ you is like pouring black powder on a campfire.”

“I am not looking for trouble.”

“That’s not my point. It’s looking for you.”

Reverend Albright came in from the backyard, where he’d been singeing the tiny hairs off the chickens he’d just slaughtered. He wore a simple brown waistcoat and breeches and coarse shirt, all the better to keep care of his preacher’s attire. He looked more a butcher than a minister, and his hands were stained red with the blood of the hens now ready for the roasting oven.

He handed the birds to Martha Albright, who carried them off to the kitchen table, where she would prepare them for Sunday dinner. Martha kept a steady stream of chatter flowing as she worked. Kate, seated across from her, could only marvel at the wealth of friendly gossip her cousin kept stored for just such a visit. The Martins had a new child, widow Grauwyler was seeing Elmo Dunson, the village cooper, and Abel Merkley’s sons had all run off to fight the British in Boston, though some questioned the timing of their patriotic fervor. It was rumored Nels Arnstrom’s daughter was with child, much to the scandal of the community.

“If that is the case,” Martha remarked, “they had better join the British, for that’s the only place they’ll be safe from farmer Arnstrom!”

“Now, Martha. The Lord decries an idle tongue,” the reverend gently chided.

“Idle, indeed. I haven’t stopped talking since Kate and I sat down,” Martha said with a wink toward the woman opposite her.

“And where is your Daniel McQueen?” the minister continued, washing his hands in a bucket of well water, which he promptly emptied out the back door.

“Gone to see John Morbitzer about a few rods of blister iron for our forge.”

“He’ll be back before these hens are cooked,” Martha cheerfully added. “Don’t worry, Francis, we won’t have to delay our dinner.”

The reverend patted his stomach, which growled on cue. He crossed to the table and helped himself to one of the biscuits cooling on a platter close at hand.