Scattered Seeds (26 page)

Chapter 43

John Harris was still in Philadelphia. His clerk, Samuel Rogers, had to be roused from the house, barely visible now behind a double stockade.

Rogers ambled down the slope from the gate, hatless and tucking in his shirt. “How can I help you, sirs?”

“Got a mule and a load of wheat to sell,” Henry replied.

Rogers chuckled. “Wheat? What am I to do with wheat?”

Was the clerk trying to finagle him into selling the grain at a low price?

Henry would not be tricked. “The way I hear it, wheat’s fetching big prices.”

The clerk’s expression turned sympathetic. “Indeed, it is, in places where there are gristmills. These days, our trade is limited to mules and pelts.”

It seemed Magi would fare better than he today, and with a dumb mule, of all things.

Rogers sought to allay his dejection. “I know you must have risked much and traveled far, but if you want to sell your wheat, I’m afraid you’ll have to take it to Lancaster. But take heart, lad, you’ll find prices quite high. Much of the flour has gone to supply the forts. Folk need flour.”

“What about the mule?”

Rogers walked with him to the corral where he ran his hands over the mule’s shoulder. “He’s buddy sour and needs some weight. Not worth full price, mind, but I’ll be fair. Come.”

Henry cast a victorious glance at Magi, who leaned against a tree looking impatient. He followed Rogers inside a sagging structure and accepted the clerk’s first fair offer.

Rogers lit a taper on a counter. “Coin, credit, or draft?”

“Coin.”

Rogers handed payment to Henry. “Make your mark here.” He spun a ledger book around and pointed to an empty line halfway down the page.

Conceit overtook Henry then, smugness at having sold the mule and at being able to make more than a mark. He plunged the quill into Rogers’ ink and signed his name—his real name—with a flourish. When Rogers rocked the blotter over his signature, he realized the magnitude of his blunder. He stared at his moniker and rebuked himself for falling prey to pride.

“Pride goeth afore destruction, Henry, remember that.
”

If the clerk asked to see his papers, he could be locked up, leaving his father alone on the frontier until Henry paid his debt to society. And just how would he take out a notice for Mary now? Would inquiries be made to Henry McConnell or to Robert McAdams?

This was Magi’s fault! If he hadn’t insisted on selling that damned mule . . .

“McConnell, is it?” Rogers plucked the quill from his hand.

Henry winced at the clerk’s sudden interest. He toyed with the idea of saying no, that his handwriting was impossibly illegible, but before he could open his mouth, the clerk asked, “D’ye know a William McConnell?”

There seemed little harm in admitting that he did.

“He’s my uncle.”

The clerk thrust his forefinger into the air, and with an “Aha!” he pulled out a drawer and set it on the counter. “I have a letter for him.” He slid his taper closer and rifled through letters and parcels. “Here it is.”

He withdrew a piece of sealed foolscap and handed it to Henry. “Your uncle is lucky. This arrived before the illustrious Ben Franklin got his hands on the postal system. ‘Regulating,’ he calls it. Most folk call it profiteering and naught else. His ‘regulations’ cost men money to get their own letters. Yet somehow, Mister Franklin’s newspapers post for free.” He shook his head. “Would you mind taking it to your uncle? The letter, that is.”

Henry nodded and accepted the correspondence with his gaze locked on the drawer, where letters bound with twine and addressed to Edward McAdams rested against a parcel. An official-looking missive lying next to them displayed his own false name. He stifled a gasp when he read the press printed return address.

Office of Registrar, Lancaster County.

Magi sat on the idle ferry cooling his feet in the river. “Did you get enough for a gown? What’s wrong?”

A bout of lightheadedness threatened to overcome Henry as he handed Magi the coins and shared the whole of it. He explained the circumstances necessitating their use of false names, the entire tale, from the torc’s legend to Uncle Sorley’s envy and their need to flee Ireland.

Magi stood. “It is a simple matter. I will go in and tell him I am Edward McAdams. He will give me the letters, and I will give them to you.”

Henry looked at his innocent friend. The clerk would not trust the man with leathery skin and mutilated ears. He would ask to see Magi’s papers. Magi had none to show him.

There was only one option, and the thought of it filled him with shame.

Thou shalt not steal.

No one spoke the words, but Henry whispered a reply anyway. “It’s not really stealing. The letters belong to us.”

Magi offered no argument.

The buttonwood leaves above them darkened an already gloomy night. Magi and Henry crouched beneath the tree and listened over the chorus of crickets and frogs for Walsh’s snores in the byre, where he went after the fire died.

“Do you remember what is in there?” Magi whispered.

“A few candles, a book, some ink. I did nae see what was on the other side of the counter.”

“I’d wager it’s not even locked. Come on.” Magi started for the office.

Henry grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

“I’ll not see ye hanged on my account. Bide here and keep watch.”

“Nay.” Magi wrenched his arm out of Henry’s grip.

“Magi, if both of us are caught, Father will be alone at the cabin until we are tried and our fines are paid.”

Magi expressed his understanding by shouldering his musket and backing into the shadows.

An owl screeched from some lofty perch. Henry imagined the bird’s view of him as he crawled, spiderlike, across the barren yard. He looked back once and saw the silhouette of Magi’s musket barrel among the limbs.

The three hewn logs serving as the office’s steps were partially rotten and damp against his hands. He patted the door’s face, praying the strings dangled from the hole. They did, and he tugged at them to lift the latch and open the door. He tumbled inside and waited.

The windowless office was dark, and still hot from the sunny day. Henry sweated as he felt his way along the countertop, careful to avoid anything that might clatter onto the floor. He located drawers and opened them one at a time. The first contained scraps of rope and a few wooden pegs; another held a collection of quills and paper.

The final drawer squealed when he opened it. He slid to the floor and held his breath, certain Rogers would discover him. When no one came, he reached inside the drawer to feel its contents. He found the bundle bound with twine, their dimpled paper suggesting time spent at sea. He guessed they were his father’s letters and tucked them into his pocket. The others felt too small or too thick to be from the registrar. At last, he palpated a letter with a generous wax seal. He added it to the bundle in his pocket, replaced the drawer with shaking hands, and then rejoined Magi at the buttonwood tree.

“Did you find them?” Magi whispered.

Henry was breathless, and his mouth was dry. The eyes of God blazed upon him, blistering his conscience. “I . . . found letters. I canny say if they’re the right ones.” God would punish him. He would punish him by showing him that he took the wrong letters. What would Henry do then? Sneak back into the office?

They lit a fire. Henry slipped the missives from his pocket. In the mounting firelight, he saw their false names and looked heavenward, where a few stars twinkled between the clouds.

“I got the right ones.”

He tore open the letter addressed to him and leaned closer to the blaze.

My Dear Sirs,

Some time has passed since your visit to my office and your inquiry regarding a George Gibson. As you may recall, I had no knowledge of him at that time. Since then, however, Gibson has made himself quite known by his deplorable activities, namely transferring indentures using false names, Josiah Buck among them.

Your memory may serve to remind you that Josiah Buck was the name of the gentleman—and here I confess a hesitation in designating him as such—who transferred three indentures just prior to your visit. I wondered if the Alice Fletcher entered in the registry that day might be the Patterson girl you were seeking, and as I have never forgotten your despondency, I made inquiries. In short, Alice Fletcher is not Mary Patterson. Mary Patterson lives in Philadelphia.

Henry stared at the last sentence, his heart threatening to leap out of his chest. Had Mary been in Philadelphia all this time? He read on, hungry for details.

Miss Patterson arrived quite ill on the brig The Charming Hannah. She was offloaded at a pesthouse, where Gibson claimed her. He held her indenture until this March past, when his wife in Chester County betrayed him to the authorities. Miss Patterson’s indenture was then transferred to a Philadelphia merchant named Hugh Lafferty for the outlandish sum of fifty pounds. By all accounts, she is still with him, and I cannot imagine that given her purchase price, she will ever be transferred elsewhere. Few can afford that sum for a housekeeper, for that is what she now does.

I pray this letter brings you some relief at knowing Miss Patterson’s fate, at last.

I remain,

Your obedient servant,

Mathias Baker.

“What does it say?” Magi asked.

Henry barely heard him over the ringing in his ears. He dropped his hands to his lap. The letter crumpled against his thigh.

She’s alive. Mary is alive.
Mary is alive!
She is alive and in Philadelphia and the property of a rich merchant who paid fifty pounds for her.

“Magi,” he said, standing, “we have to go.”

“It is the middle of the night.”

“If Mohawks took Clara, would ye wait for the sun to rise to go after her?”

“Of course not.”

“I have a Clara of my own,” he confessed. “I thought her lost to me, but this letter”—he shook the paper, and it glowed yellow in the firelight—“not only proves she is alive, but tells me where she is. I must go to her. We need to get the wheat to Lancaster as fast as we can.”

Magi stood and started gathering up their things. “We will go now.”

A new road between Harris’s and Lancaster had been constructed to facilitate the erection and garrisoning of Governor Morris’s forts along the western frontier. The artery was so fresh they could still see the groove of the ancient Indian footpath it usurped. The government felled trees to allow the transport of supplies, but Henry’s cart lacked the clearance of the regimental wagons. They had to guide the ox around the stumps, which brought the cart too close to the ruts framing the road. The wheels slid into the furrows, especially in poorly drained areas, which meant hours of digging and pushing.

They reached the Black Bear tavern two days later, hungry and exhausted. Fearing someone would ask to see their papers, they did not stop for refreshment.

By the end of the third day, Henry stood beside Magi and their empty cart, his haversack heavy with coin. Lancaster, still unrelentingly congested, sorely needed wheat.

New shops, born out of the English-Iroquois trade, flanked the rutted streets. In one, Henry found a pair of breeches, the first new thing he ever purchased.

In an adjacent dressmaker’s shop, Magi held up two gowns, one an imported, old-fashioned dress of silk, and the other a serviceable calico with a matching petticoat.

“Which one?” His face poked through the voluminous fabric.

Henry pointed at the calico, mortified at having to stand among women’s clothes, some of them undergarments.

Magi, raised with a different set of morals, shared none of his anxiety.

“You sure?” Magi shook the silk dress. “This one is pretty.”

“What would Clara do wi’ a red silk gown?”

“You are right, of course.” Magi placed the calico gown on the counter and said to the dressmaker, “This one, please.”

She stared at them from a far corner, where she’d been trembling since they walked into her shop. It was only after Magi’s coins hit the counter that she approached.

With the gown bought, and the dressmaker likely bent over a jar of smelling salts, they went about the town purchasing the supplies Edward and Tanner listed out for them. They found everything but salt, which Henry promised to bring back from Philadelphia.

“What do you mean?” Magi asked him. “I am going with you.”

“Nay, I need ye to take the ox and supplies back to Father. I must go for Mary, but I am worried about him being alone. I canny be in both places, and I canny split mysel’ in two. Ye must do this for me. Please. Gi’ him the letters and tell him what happened. Tell him that I’m away to Philadelphia to look for Mary.”

“He will be angry.”

“Aye, but when he has time to think on it, he’ll understand. Ye’ll have to take the cart by yoursel’. If ye canny do it, let it behind and go on wi’ just the ox. We can go back for the cart later.”

“Are you sure you can find your way back home?”

Henry nodded enthusiastically, though he felt less than confident.

Magi’s eyebrows knitted together. “You could be making a long walk for naught, you know. Your woman belongs to another now. If he paid fifty pounds for her, he means to keep her.”

“A matter I have already considered. I do nae intend to buy her indenture.”

“Do you mean to run away with her, then?”