Chapter Two

1774, September 16, Friday
Indian King Tavern
Haddonfield, NJ

The Union Jack flew high and proud over the courthouse of the thriving colonial market village of Haddonfield, West New Jersey. Partly frayed, colors fading, the flag drew new vitality from a cool, stiff breeze starting up out of the northeast on this clear and pleasant September evening, and few could foresee the coming gales of political change that would tear asunder the very fabric of British rule in North America.

By 1774 the village of Haddonfield, founded seventy-three years earlier by Elizabeth Haddon, a Quaker, had grown into an important hub of transportation and commerce for the province of West New Jersey. Located where King’s Highway crosses the Cooper River, its proximity to the major shipping port of Philadelphia fostered growth and prosperity for its area’s growers, trappers, craftsmen, and merchants. Just a five-mile barge trip down the Cooper took you into the Delaware River and from there to just about anywhere else in the colonies—or world—you might want to go.

The pre-autumn sky was ablaze in shifting shades of crimson as the sun slipped softly behind a layered cloud bank on the western horizon, while high overhead, cottony wisps of fair-weather clouds in ever-changing hues—from white to orange to red—caught the last rays of the setting sun. A distant flock of Canadian geese in shifting tiered vee formations raced the daylight in search of warmer climes, their faint honking lagging far behind as they faded slowly into the southern sky.

A short, stocky, middle-aged man with sandy beard and weathered look, sporting a blue homespun coat, buckled shoes and a corncob pipe, paused for a moment, setting his duffle bag down on the red brick sidewalk. With wrinkled brow he looked up and studied the sky.

“A good day’s sailing on the morrow. Mark me words,” he commented to his traveling companion, a younger man of medium height.

“Yes, sir!” the younger man agreed. He likewise paused to regain his grip on his own duffle bag, which he had flung over his shoulder.

Walking with a slight limp, the older man approached the door of a handsome, three-story brick building, his friend following close behind. A sign hanging to the left of the door announced the establishment as: The Indian King Tavern and Inn, Est. 1750.

Wiping his boots on the wrought iron boot wipe to the right of the main entrance, the young man opened the door, inviting the older man with the limp to enter first.

The door entered upon a foyer and central hallway which ran straight back, connecting the various dining rooms, the bar, and food preparation areas of the twenty-four-room establishment. Located off the hallway to the left, was the largest of the public dining rooms, its walls lined with large wooden booths and benches, not unlike a modern diner in concept. To the right, a door opened into the tavern’s bar, a central gathering place for the sharing of news and tales of the road, for both locals and travelers alike. At the far end of the hall and to the right, was a smaller dining room, reserved for the better-paying clientele, which also connected directly to the main barroom through a second set of double doors capable of being closed off to provide a more private dining or meeting experience.

As the two men entered the dimly lit tavern bar, they were swathed in the din of animated conversation and the odor of stale, spilled beer. The bar itself occupied a corner to the immediate left upon entering the room. Completely enclosed in a locked, barred cage (hence the derived appellation ‘bar’ for such establishments), access to the bar’s interior was jealously guarded by the barkeep, who maintained a set of keys hanging from his belt. This evening’s business was especially brisk, with all tables and chairs occupied. Our two new arrivals stood near the bar, scanning the room for an open seat or familiar face, their eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light.

The barkeep gave a nod of recognition to the man with the limp. “The usual, Captain?”

The man with the limp held up two fingers. “Aye, make it two pints o’ale, Jake. One for meself and one for me first mate here. The trip up river from Cohansie parched me throat quite sorely, it did.”

The barkeep poured two drafts and passed them through the cage to the two thirsty men.

“Thanks, mate.”

The captain took the two pints and gave one to his friend, then turned back to the barkeep. “Tell me, mate. Have ya seen the master ‘ere abouts?”

The barkeep tilted his head in the direction of the rear dining room. “He’s been expecting you. You should find him in the back room.”

“Much obliged, mate,” the captain replied with a tip of his cap.

Holding their duffle in one hand, a tankard of ale in the other, the two men drudged and nudged their way through the crowded room to the double doors at the rear. The older man knocked first before entering.

The dining room was better lit and appointed than the other rooms: curtains hanging from the window, Irish linen covering its tables, and silver and Wedgewood china replacing the pewter and earthen dinnerware found in the more common areas of the establishment.

Seated at a table on the far side of the room two men, nursing their glasses of brandy, engaged one another in quiet conversation. Two long-stemmed, white clay smoking pipes rested, smoldering in their trivet stands, their charge of tobacco mostly spent. The older gentleman paused to take a sip when he noticed the two men who had just entered the room, his countenance changing immediately from worried anticipation to relaxed recognition.

“Captain Jack McElroy! You are indeed a sight for sore eyes.” The older gentleman stood up and offered the men two chairs. “Please, come join us!” He received the captain’s handshake with enthusiasm, placing his free hand on the captain’s shoulder in a near embrace.

“So, how was your trip from Cohansie? Did you come overland or by river?”

The older gentleman was approaching his middle years, handsome, medium build, standing five-feet-eleven inches tall, considered tall for his time, obviously a man of means and influence, eschewing the more fashionable powdered wigs of his day and preferring the tied-back ponytail hairstyle favored by artisans and laborers.

“Ah! Master Bartholomew,” the captain replied, “ye must know me old bones can’t abide the shock o’the road. We took the new stage boat service from Cohansie up river to Philadelphia, a bargain at four shillings six pence. Made it just under two days, with one night’s stay in Marcus Hook. For another six pence, and two extra hands at the oars, the good Cap’n dropped us off at Coopers Ferry.”

Cooper’s Ferry, the site of present day Camden, was one of several ferry systems operating along the Delaware in 1774, providing vital transportation and commerce links between West New Jersey and Philadelphia.

“So, how is the missis and the young’uns?” the captain inquired.

“Sarah and the children are fine, thank you for asking. They are presently in Philadelphia, visiting with her mother and father. Did I tell you that Sarah is with child? She is expecting in the early spring.”

“My! That is cause for celebration!” the captain beamed. “We must surely drink a toast to that bit o’good news!”

Bartholomew Weston was almost forty years old when he married Sarah, the young daughter of a well-to-do Philadelphia barrister. Their oldest child, James, was now eight years old; followed by Matthew, six; and Emily, a toddler of two.

Bartholomew smiled and acknowledged the captain’s toast with a raise of his glass. “Thank you, Captain. Now, if you would please allow me to introduce my business associate, Jonathan Bigelow. Jonathan, this is Captain Jack McElroy, the man whose sea prowess I was boasting to you about.”

His young associate, who was already standing, offered his hand in turn. “I am delighted to meet you at long last, Captain.” The young man spoke with the quivering voice of a schoolboy. “Let me assure you, the master’s boasts were most genuine and not at all lacking in candor.”

“Arrgh, pure embellishment, fer sure,” the captain replied. “Must ‘ave been the brandy speakin’.”

The four men laughed.

“It is indeed a pleasure to see ya again, Master Bart,” the captain said. “I hope ye don’t mind, but I took the liberty of bringin’ along me new first mate.”—turning to introduce his young traveling companion—“This is Paul. Paul McKenzie.”

Bartholomew looked Paul straight in the eyes and studied him. Without blinking, Paul offered his hand and spoke boldly and deliberately. “It is truly an honor to make your acquaintance, sir. Your reputation precedes you, and I look forward to placing myself in your service.”

Like the captain, Paul hailed from a long line of seafaring Irishmen. Unlike the captain, his impeccable King’s English did not so readily betray his Irish lineage. A thick crop of auburn hair, as unruly as a horse’s mane, crowning a long head with a pinkish-olive complexion attested to his Celtic origins.

Bartholomew took his hand and spoke slowly. “I am glad to see the captain has retained his gift as a judge of fine character.” Turning to the captain he then took a more solemn tone. “Jack, I am truly sorry over the untimely demise of your former first mate.”

Captain Jack looked down and slowly shook his head. “Aye, sir. He was a fine lad. And he left behind a handsome wife and young child.”

“I am well aware of that. I do hope you conveyed my offer of a pension on her behalf. Until such time as she is able to re-establish herself and remarry.”

“Aye. And she is most grateful for yer generosity, sir.”

Master Bart smiled and motioned for them all to be seated. “Please, gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable. I see you have already drawn yourself a libation. Pray tell, when was your last meal?”

When it came to food, the captain was not bashful.

“Ahh, ye must be hearin’ me stomach moanin’? I could down a whole side o’mutton were it set before me, now!”

Bart laughed. “I’m afraid the larder is void of mutton this evening. You may just have to make do with a fresh, steaming pot of venison stew.”

The captain’s eyes widened. “That’d be just fine!”

Bart nodded to Jonathan, who responded with a call to the waiter. Drawing a deep breath he spoke to his team gathered about the table. “Do you know why I summoned you from Greenwich, Jack?”

The captain paused a moment. “Aye. Well, I figured it had somethin’ t’do with the large shipment ya spoke of in yer note. Also said it had something t’do with the current embargo situation.”

“You are correct,” Bart replied. “It has become my good fortune to find myself under contract to deliver a large consignment of goods to England. It constitutes a variety of goods, tobacco, furs, lumber, and cotton originating from diverse parts of the colonies—Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. Each lot is not sufficient by itself to fill a ship, but taken together they make a goodly load, enough to fill out the hold. It all must be carefully coordinated for scheduled pickup.”

The captain took a hefty swig from his tankard of ale. “Sounds like ya need a good crew and captain t’ make the trip.”

“And a good, sound ship,” Jonathan chimed in.

The captain turned and gave a worried look to Paul, his first mate. “Mr. McKenzie, can ye please enlighten us as to the condition of the Richelieu.”

The Richelieu was the captain’s ship, a sturdy brigantine which had made the ocean crossing countless times. Currently, the ship was moored at anchor fifty miles south of Haddonfield in the tidal port town of Greenwich, located on the west bank of the Cohansey River five miles upstream from where the river empties in the Delaware Bay. The area was also referred to as Cohansie or Cohansey by the locals, a derivative of the original Cohanzick, the name given by its founder, John Fenwick, when he established the sister towns of New Salem and Cohanzick in 1675. Now, a century later, New Salem and Greenwich were two of three port of entry towns in West New Jersey, the third being Burlington, located about ten miles north of Philadelphia, all lying on the Delaware River.

The towns of Burlington and New Salem were further connected by a north-south road, the King’s Highway. Commissioned in 1681, the road would become a major thoroughfare connecting the new towns and villages soon to spring up along the way: Moorestown, Haddonfield, Woodbury, and Raccoon—a small town located on the Raccoon Creek, later renamed Swedesboro after the original Europeans who settled in the area during the 1740s. In 1707 a second “king’s highway” was commissioned—the Salem-Morris River road—connecting Salem to the new port town of Greenwich and the Morris River beyond. So, by the late eighteenth century, whether by road or waterway, the towns of West New Jersey were fast becoming connected for travel and commerce, and Bartholomew and company found themselves comfortably riding the crest of this colonial wave of economic growth.

Both the captain and Paul knew the Richelieu was leaking badly and in need of repairs; they were hoping to dry-dock the vessel in the Greenwich shipyards for the winter to effect these repairs.

“Sir, I fear we will have to look elsewhere for a sound ship,” Paul said in response to the captain’s question. “The Richelieu is in no shape to make such a demanding voyage. It is in need of much repair, which we were hoping to bring to fruition at a dry dock in Greenwich. The yard is well attended by the most able ship builders. But they would be hard pressed to complete such a task in the time to match your plan.”

“Hmm, I suspected as much,” Bart said as he took a sip of brandy. He turned to Jonathan. “Jonathan, my dear fellow, what recourse do we have? The Mr. McKenzie tells us that we have no ship at our disposal.”

Jonathan suddenly perked up. Like a young thoroughbred too eager at the starting gate, he stumbled over his opening words. “Well, sir. I…that is to say, we have…well, given some thought to an alternative plan. One that I think will actually put us in better stead with the clock”—giving Bart a wink—“and with the customs officials.”

Jonathan paused a moment, testing the waters, so to speak. The captain cocked his head to one side to better hear, as if perhaps he had missed the point. His voice turned low and gravelly.

“Aye, lad. So, what’s yer plan?” he growled.

Jonathan swallowed hard before continuing. “Yes. Well, sir, we have contacted our agents in Virginia and Maryland, instructing them to send their shipments up the coast at once, to converge on Greenwich where the Richelieu is docked.”

Bart interrupted. “We have contracted with local shipping firms, familiar with the intercostal shipping lanes used for trading between the colonies. They would be using the smaller schooner packet boats designed for speed and lighter loads, ideal for our purposes.” He turned to Jonathan. “I apologize. Please continue.”

Jonathan regained his composure and continued. “Yes, sir. The smaller schooners are definitely well-suited for the job. Now, all the while they are at sea, the captain and Mr. McKenzie would be bringing some measure of repair upon their good ship—enough to make it worthy for a single crossing. When the trade goods arrive in Greenwich, they—that would be you, sir—would effect a transfer and set sail. Upon arriving in England and delivering your cargo, you could dry-dock there to finish the repairs. Or, sell the ship for profit.”

Bart turned to address Paul and the captain. “Two months ago I instructed my young brother, John, to travel to the Chesapeake region to coordinate these arrangements. He contacted Anthony Stewart in Annapolis, a longtime friend and respected shipping merchant in that area. Together they worked out the details, signed on the ships’ captains, and made the final transactions with the suppliers in Annapolis and Alexandria.”

Bart pulled a letter from his inside vest pocket and held it up. “Yesterday, I received this letter from John, confirming that the ships departed at first high tide on the morning of the ninth of September. Barring bad weather, they should make Greenwich within a fortnight.”

The captain rubbed his bearded chin and turned to his first mate. “Tell me, Paul, d’ya think it can be done?”

Paul took a few seconds to respond. “It may be possible,” he said at last. “A fortnight, you say?”

Jonathan nodded.

“Well, it will be close,” Paul responded after a moment’s pause. “But I think the necessary minimum repairs could be made; however, there is no time to lose. We must return to Greenwich with the first morning light.”

“Argh! And I was hopin’ to rest me weary bones and see something of Philadelphia,” the captain moaned.

“Well, sir. Why don’t you stay behind? There’s no reason we both have to go back. I can return tomorrow and initiate the repairs.”

The captain’s eyes sparkled. “Ahh, now that’s a fine lad! And I know it’s not just the Richelieu ye be hankerin’ t’get back to, eh?” He turned and whispered across the table in feigned secrecy. “I think there’s a young lass who waits upon his return.”

Everyone laughed—except Paul. His complexion turned a color that matched that of the room’s interior, which was now awash in the red glow of the setting sun.

The captain continued. “On the way up river, the ferry captain said there’s quite a stir and some goings in the city. Says business in the city has been brisk of late.”

Bart nodded his head slowly. “Yes. Well, I’m not surprised. As you may or may not be aware, Philadelphia is playing host to a general congress of the colonies. As we now speak, delegates from up and down the colonies are meeting across the river to consider our future relationship with Great Britain and the crown. Hopefully, we have not progressed to the point of irreconcilable differences, and some restoration of imperial authority may yet be managed.”

There was a moment of silence. Bart began drumming his fingers on the table. “So, my friend, with so many out-of-town guests,” he continued, “you may have trouble finding suitable lodging in the city.”

Bart took the bottle and poured himself another brandy.

The captain rocked far back in his chair and let out an audible sigh. Leaning forward with hands folded together on the table, he proceeded to speak softly but decisively. “Now, Master Bart, I mean no disrespect for mother England or the crown. But, it seems to me that little can be done at this point to re-establish respect for a King or Parliament that has demonstrated such meager regard fer the rights of its colonial subjects. As a man of business, ye canno’ deny the impact the Townsend duties have had on trade. And the recent actions on the part of Parliament…the—” Pausing to find the right words, he turned to his first mate for help.

“The Coercive Acts, sir?” Paul offered.

“Yes, me lad. The bloody Coercive Acts, by God! Such arrogance! What could Parliament be thinkin’? They’ve only managed to prompt open rebellion with their iron-fisted handling of that tea dumping affair last year in Boston Harbor. I tell ya, many who weren’t so inclined t’sympathize with those Bostonian hotheads at the time are now sidin’ wid’em!”

The captain sat back in his chair, took a drink of brew, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Jonathan nervously studied Master Bart’s expression for a reaction to this outburst. He knew, if the others did not, that Bart’s young brother, John, was one of those “Bostonian hot heads” to which the captain was referring. John had long since taken up the cause of rebellion against the crown, and would have suffered the crown’s justice had not his older brother intervened on various occasions, relying upon his influence and good standing with local royal officials. A silver crown gracing an outstretched open palm would most often suffice to soothe the wrong.

Bart’s countenance remained congenial. His left cheek just below his eye twitched once, then twice.

“I take no issue with your position, captain,” Bart replied at last. “The prospect of self-rule is fast becoming a popular notion. But I do object to certain incendiaries raising the ire of the general populace for no other purpose than the advance their own causes, for which little long-term common good can be gained.”

Paul shifted nervously in his chair, glanced at the captain, and then turned to Master Bart. “Sir, while I consider myself a loyal subject of the crown, you must surely agree that there are certain causes worth fighting for…certain liberties worth preserving.”

Bart was quick to reply. “Certainly! Fair trade would be top on my list of causes. The duties and taxes imposed by Parliament are at best ill conceived, and quite arguably oppressive in the manner of their enactment—lacking the proper colonial representation in Parliament. But even without the duties, it is becoming next to impossible for a well-meaning man of business to successfully navigate the shallow shoals of commerce these days, what with the morass of regulations, bonds, certificates of clearance, and the arbitrary enforcement of the laws by customs officials. There is rampant confusion and corruption at every turn.”

“Although, you must admit, sir, that you have done quite well at navigating those ‘shoals of commerce,’ as you put it,” Jonathan interjected with a self-congratulatory smirk.

Bart smiled. Of course he knew this to be true. He knew that he was well connected, having worked hard to become so. Just a year before, after Parliament had granted the East India Tea Company exclusive rights to sell tea in America, the company was permitted to grant monopolies to certain favored colonial merchants for purchasing and importing their tea. Bart was on this list of favored merchants.

“Yes, Jonathan, but only with the help of loyal, hard-working associates such as yourselves, I must add,” Bart acknowledged with a look around the table.

They all nodded approvingly.

Bart leaned back and shook his head. “God knows, the duties are a burden. However, I must say, the embargoes imposed by colonial associations in reaction to these duties have placed a stranglehold on trade that goes far beyond the effects of taxation.”

“Aye,” the captain said. “I got t’agree with ya on that account.” He looked down and took the lapel of his coat in hand. “D’ye think I prefer this Daughters of Liberty homespun coat to the likes of what ye be wearin’? I think not!”

They all laughed. The captain’s indigo-dyed, homespun coat with pewter buttons was no match for Bart’s smartly tailored, imported English jacket, with its solid brass buttons and gold cord trim. In New England towns, the “Daughters of Liberty” held spinning bees to encourage the use of homespun clothes in lieu of imported fashions from England, in support of the trade embargoes that had become widespread as a means of protest and resistance.

“But, sir, do you think free and fair trade is possible as long as we are subjects of the crown?” Paul challenged.

Bart was playing with the clay pipe on the table, trying to empty it of its ashes. He spoke to Paul as he continued to clean the pipe.

“I believe, when all is said and done, my good lad, that compromise is still possible. And we need not necessarily sever connections with the crown to implement self-rule.”

A clump of ash dislodged from the bowl and fell to the floor.

“Aye,” the captain said. “We need only convince Parliament that we can govern ourselves. Make our own laws. And heaven knows, it’s becoming harder and harder to tell just who is in charge these days. What with every town and county forming their own association and provincial congress, where is it all going t’lead?”

“Hopefully,” Jonathan interjected, “the general congress now convening in Philadelphia can resolve these issues. It may be our last chance at compromise.” He spoke with a measure of exasperation in his voice, nearly swallowing his words at the end.

Everyone nodded in agreement.

Bart smiled and raised his glass. “So, let me offer a toast, then, to the general congress of the colonies. The First Continental Congress. May they succeed at reaching a suitable compromise, and may business thrive, both here and abroad!”

“Hear, hear!” the four men cheered in unison.

With a single clank, the four glasses and mugs met above the table. A splash of brandy and suds spilled onto the white linen tablecloth as the four men drank their toast.

The waiter approached the table with two steaming bowls of venison stew and a fresh loaf of bread wrapped in a towel.

“Ahh, just in the nick o’time!” the captain exclaimed.

The waiter set the meals down in front of the two hungry men. The captain leaned over the bowl of stew and inhaled deeply. “Mmm! Such a fine scent that truly sets me juices flowin’!”

“Would there be anything else, sir?” the waiter asked.

“Aye, be a good lad and bring us another round o’ brew, if ya don’t mind.”

Bart then addressed the waiter on behalf of his two out-of-town guests. “Thomas, our two guests will be staying the night. Could you please arrange for their lodging? You can put their charges to my account.”

“Yes, sir. But…” Thomas hesitated, turning to the captain. “I’m afraid that we are quite filled to capacity this evening. Unless you wouldn’t mind sharing a small room?”

The captain looked at Bart. His raised brow said, you’d better take it.

The captain turned to Thomas. “Tell me lad, ‘ave y’ever been to sea?”

The young waiter looked puzzled. “No, sir. In truth I have not.”

“Aye, then ye canno’ know that the quarters below deck to be tighter than a bosun’s knot! I should think one shared room between us will do just fine!”

The four men laughed. The waiter smiled nervously and backed away.

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it straight away.” He quickly turned and left the room.

The captain broke off a piece of bread as he spoke to Bart. “So, tell me sir, what of the return trip? In yer note ye mentioned something of the embargo situation.”

Bart took the clay pipe and began charging it with fresh tobacco from his own pouch, which contained a custom blend of Virginia’s finest tobaccos, as he spoke. “This summer I negotiated the purchase of a large consignment of black tea with the East India Tea Company for the purpose of importing into these colonies.”

Bart paused. Holding the pipe firmly between his teeth, he ignited a piece of matchwood with the table candle’s flame and drew it close to the bowl. Whiffs of white smoke swelled from the bowl and the corners of his mouth as his cheeks pulsed in accustomed rhythm, puffing like a smithy’s bellows, until the whole company was enveloped in an aromatic cloud of smoke. Satisfied that the pipe was lit, he removed and held out the pipe with the one hand as he withdrew the match with the other, shaking its flame to extinction with a snap of the wrist, all performed in one synchronous motion; then, tilting his head upward and pursing his lips, he exhaled forcibly in one long breath, sending a plume of smoke to impinge on the rafters overhead.

Picking up where he had left off, Bart continued. “Captain J. Allen, commanding the brig Greyhound, is scheduled to set sail from England sometime in early November. His instructions are to ship the cargo of tea to Philadelphia, where I will pay the necessary duties and sign for its release.” Bart took a long puff on his pipe. “Now, I have been told by customs officials across the river that the climate in that fair city of brotherly love has deteriorated to the point where English tea may no longer be welcome there. In fact, the contagion of discontent is so severe that it is feared there could be a repeat of the Boston Harbor incident of last December. Need I say that such would be a cataclysmic conclusion, indeed, to our sound enterprise?”

At this point the sound of cheering was heard coming from the bar. Someone shouted, “No taxation without representation!” More cheering. Another voice, louder than the first, exclaimed, “Massachusetts! A toast to your resolve!” More rousing cheers.

Bart motioned to the waiter, who had just returned from the bar and was hastening toward the kitchen. “Thomas, can you please tell me what all the commotion is about?”

Thomas turned in his tracks. “Yes, sir. A correspondent from the Gazette just arrived from Philadelphia. He announced that the Congress has just endorsed the Resolves of Suffolk County. Massachusetts, I believe he said. But, in all truthfulness, I’m not sure what that means.”

“Thank you, Thomas.”

Bart and company remained silent as Thomas continued his retreat to the kitchen. The captain spoke first. “So, ye were sayin’, sir?”

Bart, distracted for the moment, snapped back to the present. “I’m sorry, Jack. Yes—as I was saying—a cataclysmic conclusion, indeed.”

Unlike Thomas, Bartholomew knew exactly what was meant by this congressional endorsement. It meant that those wishing to break the bonds with Great Britain had won the first round in these deliberations; that reconciliation may not, in fact, be possible after all; and that long-term, life in the colonies may, indeed, be heading toward very difficult times.

Bart picked up on his original train of thought. “What I need for you to do, Jack, when you arrive in England, is to contact Captain Allen as expeditiously as possible. He must not deliver the tea to Philadelphia. I am thinking, in fact, that New Salem or Greenwich may prove a much safer haven for our tea.” He looked at the captain and his first mate. “Tell me, how would you measure the mood of the people in Cumberland County?”

Paul and the captain exchanged glances. Paul spoke first. “Sir, I believe that Greenwich has not yet been touched by the fervor of resistance.” The captain nodded in agreement as Paul continued. “The people are, for the most part, loyalist in their politics. And, I believe the town should prove to be a safe haven for holding the tea.”

Bart took a moment to consider this. “In that case, let me propose the following. Paul, upon your return to Greenwich, I would like you to arrange for the safekeeping of the tea. Find a safe house in Greenwich for its storage until a final sale and disposition can be arranged. This should be done in secret. We cannot trust the usual public warehouse storage. That would be too risky.”

Paul nodded. “Yes, sir. I think this will be possible. I have someone in mind who should be willing to do our bidding. Someone inclined toward neutral, if not loyalist, political views. Someone,” he added, “in possession of a large cellar suitable for our purposes.”

Bart smiled. “Good. And just one more thing, Paul.”

Bart always saved the less agreeable aspects of the job for last. “Once in England, Paul, I would like you to accompany Captain Allen and the Greyhound back to America. He may not be as familiar with the shoals and channels in the bay as you are.” Turning to the captain he added, “Jack, I would leave it up to you whether to return on the Greyhound, or to remain in England to effect repairs on the Richelieu.”

Bart could see the captain was not enamored with the idea of giving up his first mate, even for just one ocean crossing. The captain rubbed his bearded chin and responded hesitantly. “Aye. Sounds like a—workable plan. It’s all in the manner of execution, I suppose. As ye well know, there’s many a slip twixt cup and lip.”

They all realized that timing was crucial. Any delays brought about by bad weather, illness, or just the “bad luck o’ the Irish,” as the captain put it, would set the plan back and possibly jeopardize the tea shipment.

Paul posed the obvious question. “What if we should fail to intercept Captain Allen in time, before his departure?”

“In that case”—Bart hesitated—“well then, we must resort to an alternative plan. Plan B, as it were.”

The company remained thoughtfully silent. It was Jonathan who spoke first. “Sir, if I may be so bold.”

The others turned and studied the young lad.

“I could travel to Lewes, Delaware, at the appointed time in December, meet with the harbor master there, and try to intercept the Greyhound as she enters the bay.”

The young man noted a look of incredulity on the captain’s face. The captain knew the harbor town of Lewes was located near the wide mouth of the Delaware Bay, on its south side just west of Cape Henlopen, whose sandy reaches separated the bay from the ocean.

“I actually know the area quite well,” the lad continued. “I spent my summers there as a child and young man—or, should I say, younger man,” he corrected himself. Then, continuing with his original train of thought, “We would communicate our intent for a change of course from Philadelphia to Greenwich. It could be a simple lighted lamp signal in code. If Captain Allen responds in kind, we will know that Paul is on board and all is well. If he responds otherwise, then I would attempt an intercept on the open water in the harbor master’s sloop.”

The men looked at one another.

“That could work,” Paul finally nodded in agreement. “Inbound ships oft times stop to check with the harbor master for changing conditions in the bay. The shifting sand bars can be treacherous, especially after a storm.”

“Well! Plan B it is, then!” Bart concluded in a congratulatory tone. “Let’s have another round to toast our scheme.”

Just then, the sound of singing, accompanied by fiddle music, was heard coming from the adjoining barroom. An especially fine tenor voice, accompanied by at least two musicians on fiddles, was met with applause and cheers from a friendly, celebratory crowd.

Captain Jack’s eyes brightened at the sound of the music. They were now playing a lively rendition of one of his favorite tunes, “The Rakes of Mallow”:

…Beauing, belling, dancing, singing,

Breaking windows, damning, sinking.

Ever raking, never thinking,

Live the Rakes of Mallow…

The blood began flowing anew, bringing a ruddy glow to the captain’s cheeks, his toes tapping out the rhythm of the tune as it picked up speed with each refrain in the style of an Irish reel, with brisk hand clapping in unison from the tavern’s company accenting each downbeat.

“Er, Master Bart, methinks I hear a reel playin’ in the far room,” the captain said. “D’ya think ye could spare me for a short time. I would sorely like t’ get closer to that music, if ye don’t mind.”

“Please, by all means, Captain. Go! Enjoy yourself!” Bart smiled. “But, please mind the time. The tide goes out at eight in the morning. If you’re considering a barge transport to the city down the Cooper, give yourself ample time to reach the landing.” Then, as an afterthought, “Oh, yes, when you get to the city you may want to try the new City Tavern on Second Street. It’s boasted to be ‘the most genteel tavern in America,’” he said with a smile. “That is, if we mark the words of our illustrious delegate from Massachusetts, John Adams.”

Then, looking around the table, Bart slapped both hands palms down on the table and added in closing: “I believe our official business is concluded for this evening, gentlemen. I now leave you to your own devices.”

“Aye, and a good evening to you, sir,” the captain replied eagerly. “Now, if ye would kindly excuse us.”

The captain pushed back his chair and began to rise, but paused midstride in a crouched position, with both hands remaining on the table. “Oh, I almost forgot something I was meanin’ t’mention.”

“What is it, Jack?” Bart replied.

Bart was relaxed now. Sitting back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, he held a snifter of brandy in one hand and a smoking pipe in the other.

“I was just meanin’ t’mention,” the captain continued, “that I came across one of yer relations, sir, earlier this week, as I was taking refreshment at the Stone Tavern in Greenwich. Said his name was John. John Weston. Not the younger John, your brother, mind ya. Rather, this one claimed to be—a distant cousin.”

Bart cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. “Are you quite sure of that?”

“Oh, yes sir! Quite positive. The gentleman—and I do mean to say he acted the gentleman part—he even knew yer missus by her first name, he did. Sarah. I thought that enough to vouch for’ em. And, if I could be so bold, even in his manner and likeness, he did bear a strong family resemblance.”

Bart pondered this for a moment as he stared off into space. Finally, he just shook his head. “I have no knowledge of such a…distant cousin with that same name,” he concluded. He took another sip of brandy. “But then again, my family tree has many far-reaching limbs. Perhaps, from my great-uncle Andrew’s lineage. We rather lost track of him when my grandfather emigrated from New England.” He turned to the captain. “I should like to meet this man. This other John Weston, as you say.”

“Yes, indeed, sir. He did say he was headin’ up this way. Had an uncanny knowledge of Haddonfield, I might add. Like he lived here himself.”

“Well, I shall have to keep one eye peeled for this mysterious gentleman, shan’t I?”

“Yes, sir. And so shall I.”

The captain turned to Paul. “Well, young man, shall we have at it? Music and shenanigans beckon in the next room!”

With that said, Captain Jack and Paul McKenzie adjourned to the tavern bar, where they passed the remainder of the evening in song, drink, and revelry.

The clock on the dining room wall struck ten. The music had ceased and the tavern crowd was beginning to thin. Tomorrow would come early for most; and more than a few would face the morning light with a shared measure of dread and discomfort, a fair price to pay, the intemperate would argue, for an uncommonly fine evening of camaraderie, entertainment, and celebration.

Jonathan spent some time with the revelers, but had returned to join his mentor at the table as Thomas was making his last call rounds among the late evening customers. Jonathan was feeling more relaxed, now, as he addressed Bart. “Sir, you quite surprised me when you introduced me early this evening as your business associate. It rather threw me off at the start.”

“Why should you be surprised?” Bart replied. “As an apprentice to our firm, I should be permitted to introduce you as whomever I please, as the occasion requires. And besides,” he added with a smile, “you certainly merit the appellation. You have proven yourself to be an industrious and trustworthy addition to our enterprise, my fine fellow. And, I might add, resourceful. Your Plan B took even the captain by surprise! Jack is not one who is so easily impressed. Personally, I consider myself fortunate to carry you as an apprentice.”

Jonathan took a deep breath as he absorbed the compliment. “Thank you, sir. I…will continue to strive—”

“Now, now,” Bart interrupted the struggling lad with a wave of his hand. “Enough said.”

“Yes, sir.” Jonathan settled back in his chair, feeling good, knowing somehow that he had reached a new plateau in his young professional career.

Bartholomew shifted his weight and continued. “And now, if we may return to the business at hand.”

Leaning on the armrest of his chair, he moved himself closer to Jonathan who was seated to his right. He motioned Jonathan to draw closer, and began speaking in a tone that hovered just above a whisper. “About my younger…baby brother: John.” Bart drew a deep breath and sighed. “How should I put it? John has more than a fair share of his mother’s blood flowing in his veins. He worries me in a way.”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“Well, as you may or may not know, my family originally settled in New England. It is only since my father, Samuel, migrated to these parts have we called West Jersey our home.”

Bart hesitated as he considered the approach he would take. “I was the youngest of three children. But, I never knew my mother. She died bringing me into this world. Needless to say, her loss put a terrible burden on my father. Although my two older sisters helped to raise me, my father, as I only learned later, became sullen and withdrawn. He eventually sought remedy by moving his family southward, to this fair village of Haddonfield, which had only recently come to be settled.”

Bart took another sip of brandy.

“But, Father did not completely escape his connections with New England. Twenty years later he remarried. His new, young wife, Amanda, no more than half his age, came from a nouveau riche Boston family of barristers, bankers, and politicians. I am told that, as meek and gentle was his first wife, my mother, God rest her soul,”—lifting his glass of brandy in the manner of a toast—“was his new wife bold and vivacious! Less than a year later, young John was born,” he said, setting his emptied glass down with a thud. “His sister, Emily, followed five years after. As my father’s health began to fail, I took over more and more of the family business. Considering the span of years between myself and John, I became something of a surrogate father for him. Emily…well, she remained the special pride and joy of her mother. They began spending more and more of their time with her side of the family, in New England.”

Jonathan sat still, not knowing how to respond. He felt somewhat uneasy, never having been brought so closely into someone’s confidence before, someone so senior to himself, someone he deeply respected and admired. He understood, now, why Bart hadn’t married sooner in life.

“I never knew that John was your…half brother,” he said finally.

“Yes. Well, as John grew, he developed strong bonds with the cousins on his mother’s side, in the Boston and Salem areas.” Bart leaned forward over the table and added: “Of course, I mean the old Salem in Massachusetts, not our New Salem here in Jersey.” He planted both elbows firmly on the table, hands joined, forming a single, tight fist.

“The point is”—speaking softly but firmly, punctuating each phrase with a tapping motion of his fist—“I came to realize that John had more of his mother’s blood in him than his father’s. A free spirit, like his mother. As such, he is attracted to other…free-spirited individuals. In these times, you don’t have to go far to find such people,” he laughed. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Jonathan squirmed in his chair. He was seeing a pensive, almost melancholy, side of Master Bart he had never witnessed before.

“Yes, sir. Most definitely. Especially in New England.”

“Hear, hear!” Bart backed off and poured himself another glass of brandy.

“You know. Maybe there is something about the New England weather. Not surprising they call the worst kind of storm in these parts a nor’easter, eh?” Bart chuckled.

Jonathan smiled.

Bart coughed to clear his throat; then raised his snifter of brandy to study the currents of vapor condensing on the inside of the glass as he spoke very slowly, very deliberately. “John…doesn’t know anything about the tea consignment. And I would like it to remain that way.”

“Sir?”

Bart’s speech was becoming a little garbled and Jonathan wasn’t certain he had heard him correctly.

“What I mean is, I don’t want John having to compromise his principles. I know how strongly he feels about the Tea Tax and the whole taxation and rights issue in general. I don’t want to force him into having to choose between profit and principle. And God knows, we need the profit! You have seen the books yourself.”

Jonathan knew the business was barely doing well, and could scarcely afford a serious setback.

“My concern is not so much with John, as with his associates,” Bart added. “If they were to catch wind of this tea shipment, I’m afraid things could get out of hand.”

Jonathan understood, now, Bart’s ulterior motive for sending John to Annapolis and Alexandria to arrange for the southern shipments. In John’s absence, Bart had a free hand to make the more sensitive tea deal arrangements. Considering John’s intimate association with the Sons of Liberty and the whole Boston tea dumping affair, he knew this to be a fair precaution.

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

Bart nodded. “You see, as far as John knows, the only ship returning from England will be the Richelieu, bound for Philadelphia.”

“Then, we shall keep it that way, sir,” Jonathan assured him.

Bart smiled and closed his eyes.

Jonathan caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall. “Sir, if it would not be too inconvenient, I should like to turn in for the evening. The evening hours have flown by and—”

“Now, now, my good lad,” Master Bartholomew interrupted, “The ‘healthy, wealthy, and wise’ among us have long since retired, as our friend, Mr. Franklin from Philadelphia, would admonish us to do as well. Please feel free to go at any time.”

Jonathan smiled, stood up, and bowed. “Very well, then, I must bid you good evening, sir. Would you be requiring my services in the morning?”

Bart’s thoughts were elsewhere. Staring straight ahead, he seemed oblivious for the moment to Jonathan’s presence. Jonathan began to speak again, but was interrupted.

“No, no. That won’t be necessary,” Bart replied, snapping out of his reverie. “It is week’s end. Enjoy the day, and the Sabbath the day after. I shall see you bright and early Monday morning, at the office.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jonathan turned to leave, but had a second thought. “Sir, will you be in need of…any assistance getting home tonight.”

Bart sat there for a moment. His three-story brick townhome at 14 Tanner Street was less than a ten-minute walk away, which he had negotiated in the past with a far greater number of brandies under his belt.

Bart smiled and patted Jonathan on the hand. “No, my good fellow. Thank you, but I shall be fine.”

Copyright 2016 by Stephen Goldhahn