Guns of Liberty (13 page)

“Food is for stomachs and stomachs for food, but all will pass away,” Albright philosophized as he relaxed in a kitchen chair. His chores were finished, and there was nothing to do but watch Martha spoon bread crumbs and onion stuffing into the hens, preparing them for her roasting pans. Kate was anxious to help. She stuffed the hens and peeled potatoes and kept up a steady stream of innocent conversation, skirting the one topic foremost in the Albrights’ thoughts. Just who was this Daniel McQueen? And what exactly was going on between Kate and her hired man?

D
ANIEL MCQUEEN STOOD JUST
inside the door of the Boar’s Head Tavern and allowed his eyes to adjust to the smoky interior. Sounds and sights assailed him. Tobacco smoke clung heavy as marsh fog to the rafters above the heads of the tavern’s patrons. Its pungent aroma mingled with the smells of a stew simmering in a caldron in the fireplace. Abram Rembert, the proprietor of the Boar’s Head, was famous for the Friendship Stew he kept heated over the coals; any of the tavern’s visitors were welcome to take a bowl and sample the fare. Daniel licked his lips. His mouth had already begun to water, but he refrained from heading right for the caldron. Reverend Albright was expecting him for Sunday dinner, and Daniel promised to return with his appetite intact.

The errand to the local smithy had been a ruse, allowing Daniel to slip away by himself, the better to meet with Major Meeks. The tavern was the perfect place, three rooms full of boisterous strangers and none to notice the likes of Meeks and his conspirators.

Taverns were all the same to Daniel: here a man might find food and drink and perhaps earn the fancy of a comely serving girl. Daniel started across the room and, to his chagrin, garnered the interest of many of the men at the tables around him. They took notice because of his size. He was broader in the shoulders and a head taller than most of the men of his day, and the harsh lessons of the wilderness left an indelible stamp upon his features. He walked like an animal on the prowl, threading his way through the crowd, his eyes alert and searching for the one man he needed to find and wished he would never have to see again.

“Will you be having a jack of ale sir?” said a bright-eyed lass crossing in front of him. She was a pert, diminutive girl whose bodice strained to contain her well-rounded bosom. She carried a tray of leather jacks whose contents sloshed over the sides and left foaming puddles around the tankards. “If you’d prefer something stronger, sir, Master Rembert has tapped a keg of his own brew. The master calls it Pilgrim’s Fire.”

“Watch thyself, good fellow,” a stout, ruddy-cheeked gentleman interjected, overhearing the tavern girl’s offer. “Pilgrim’s Fire would melt the tines off a pitchfork, mark ye.” The gentleman held his belly and laughed heartily, revealing a row of blackened teeth. No doubt, thought Daniel, here was one soul who seemed to have made Pilgrim’s Fire his drink of choice. At least if the stubble in his mouth was any indication. The gentleman, though dressed in the sober garb of a Quaker, appeared to have none of the deportment. Perhaps he had fallen away from the ranks of the Society of Friends.

Without waiting for a reply, the man in black staggered off toward a nearby table and slumped unceremoniously into the first vacant chair he came to with nary a “by your leave” to the men already seated to either side.

“Get along, my pretty, for it’s business I have with a man,” Daniel said. “Mayhaps you’ve seen him. He’s tall, with a lean and hungry look, and wears a patch over his left eye.”

“With a face even a mother would long to forget,” the girl said.

“The very man. Have you seen him?”

The girl balanced her tray on an upturned hand and pointed to the entrance to the rear room. “He’s in there, sir, with his friends—such as they are. Some of them ain’t exactly the friendliest sort.”

“You’re a good lass.” Daniel patted her soft arm. He made his way to the rear of the tavern. Behind him, a man moved out of the crowd. Keeping his hat pulled low to hide his features, Henk Schraner fell in step with Daniel and positioned himself to keep the redheaded man under observation.

Meeks was easy enough to locate, and Daniel wasted no time in approaching the Englishman’s table. Josiah grinned at his companions and muttered, “O ye of little faith,” then ordered them to leave. Al Dees and Mose Wiley shrugged and vacated their seats. Figuring Daniel was one of their own, they regarded him with a certain degree of curiosity, nothing more. O’Flynn, being Woodbine’s man, didn’t like being ordered about by the major, but now was not the time or place to voice his objections. Besides, the platter of pork ribs held nothing but bones, while the tempting aroma of Friendship Stew beckoned to him from the front room. O’Flynn licked the grease from his fingers and left. Daniel stepped aside, a frown on his face as he tried to remember just when and where he had seen O’Flynn before.

Will Chaney was eager to lure one of the tavern wenches out behind the tavern or upstairs to a bedroom. Now, there was a thought. He nodded to Daniel and hurried off. But Black Tolbert took his time and slowly slid his chair back and stood. A patch of late afternoon sunlight played upon the tabletop between them.

“I ain’t afraid of you, McQueen.”

“I never said you were.”

“When Meeks is finished with us, I’ll come for you. And there’ll be blood on the earth when I’m done.”

“No doubt.” Daniel was unmoved by Tolbert’s threat. Some words cling to a man and worm their way inside to leave him diminished. But Daniel knew the likes of Tolbert found their brave words sloshed about in the bottom of a tankard, and like the froth from spilled ale, such words dissipated, they didn’t last.

Tolbert shifted nervously, expecting more of a reply from Daniel than a somber
No doubt
. He glanced from Daniel to Meeks, who waved him away with a brief flick of his fingers. Tolbert grudgingly swaggered off toward the front of the tavern.

“You prime him like a pistol,” Meeks said, amused by the interchange. “Be careful, Danny boy, that you aren’t standing in the line of fire when he explodes.”

Daniel eased into a chair and sat across from the Englishman. He looked around at the crowd and an idea came to him. “If these lads knew there was a British spy in their midst, they’d tear you to pieces.”

Alarm momentarily flickered in the man’s gaunt features; then a slow smile crawled across his face and his sole eye looked with cold disregard upon those he considered no more than rabble. He held all American rebels in contempt.

“And General Gage would have your father dangling from a yardarm out in the bay.”

The major eased back in his chair and folded his hands across his flat, hard stomach. Enough idle threats, he seemed to be saying in that gesture. It was time for business.

Daniel felt the same way. He leaned forward on his elbows, clasped his hands together, and spoke in a soft but urgent tone of voice. “Why did you want to talk to me? I assume that is what the show at Albright’s was all about.”

Meeks refilled his tankard and then hunched over the table. “You appear to have ingratiated yourself with these rebels.”

“I have given no one cause to distrust me.”

“Excellent, my good fellow. I have learned of a cache of rifles, muskets, and gunpowder in the area. I must locate it. Have you heard where it is?”

Daniel looked away, focusing on the sunlit patch of ground outside the window. A pair of bluebirds chased one another through the space between the tavern and the cooper’s shop next door. The birds dipped and glided; then they flapped their wings and in the blink of an eye whisked out of sight.

“Well?”

“I haven’t heard a thing,” Daniel said impassively.

“Odd. Maybe you aren’t as accepted as you think.” Meeks studied the big man’s weathered face. His gray eyes were as impenetrable as flint. The major was accustomed to reading the men who served him. He believed he could tell when a man was lying or telling the truth. “Very well.” One of the Sicilians’ panel wagons is loaded with long rifles. When it leaves, I’ll have a couple of my men follow it. We’ll let the rebels lead us to the rest of their weapons.”

“A gypsy wagon? How did you learn of it?”

“A friend.”

Meeks did not elaborate, and Daniel did not press the matter, for fear of arousing the officer’s suspicions.

“It’s good to have friends,” Daniel said.

“He will be well rewarded for the information.” The Englishman toyed with the patch covering his eye. “Some men can be bought for money, some for power. And some for a father’s love.”

Daniel stiffened at the reference. Color crept into his cheeks. “Is that all?” he said. He shoved away from the table and stood.

“Be alert, Danny boy. Events move swiftly now. I believe your hour will soon be at hand.”

“W
HERE THE DEVIL IS
that boy?” Papa Schraner growled. He paced the hard-packed earth in front of the gypsy wagons. The setting sun splashed gold and scarlet on the western horizon and silhouetted the scattered clouds in its dazzling dying light. Dusk meant only one thing to Papa Schraner: The time was drawing nigh for his sons to escort this gun wagon out of town—all his sons.

Schraner clasped his hands behind his back and looked over at the two he could count on. Barnabas and Eben were good lads. Squatting by a cook fire where they nursed stoneware cups of strong black tea, the brothers had remembered to keep their rifles close at hand. Like Henk, they had grumbled over the idea of watching the festivities from afar. Even now a veritable tide of patriots—men, women, and children—inundated the Green. Villagers streamed down streets and alleys and spilled into the emerald park where the great oak waited to be festooned with lanterns.

Barrels of ale had been loaded onto hand carts and wheeled to strategic spots throughout the Springtown commons, while half a dozen musicians with fife and drum gathered at the base of the oak tree, placing themselves in the center of the gathering crowd.

“Henk knew he was supposed to be here, dammit,” Schraner cursed. “I wanted to send all three of you with the wagons.”

“He’s probably took him a whore and gone off somewhere.” Eben scratched at his beard. He cast a knowing glance toward Barnabas, who nodded in unspoken agreement.

“You should not speak so disrespectfully of your own family,” Schraner said.

“Henk is not my family, Papa,” Eben retorted.

“He is what I say he is!” The older man’s cheeks reddened as he struggled to bring his temper under control. He wiped a forearm across his brow. With a look toward the gun wagon, Schraner spotted Tim Pepperidge and Peter Crowe lounging against the wagon wheel. They were pretending to take no interest in the argument. Schraner scowled; he disliked airing family problems in the open where anyone could hear. Crowe had already declared that two Schraner boys was probably enough protection. After all, the whole purpose of disguising the gun wagon was to pass unnoticed from town.

“Surely he wouldn’t try to confront McQueen again?” the old farmer speculated aloud.

“It would be a fool’s play.” Barnabas refilled his cup and took a tentative swallow. The liquid burned the inside of his mouth, and he blew gently across the lip of the cup. “McQueen won’t play with him, neither.”

“But he’s just a brash, headstrong boy.”

“In a man’s body,” Eben piped up. “Leave him be, Papa. We’ll see the wagon through.”

“Anything happens to that boy, and there’d never be a moment’s peace in my house.” Schraner slapped his hand into his fist for emphasis. He stared at the oncoming throng as they followed the music of fife and drum to the liberty tree. The world was changing all around him. Life would never be the same again. He clung to the belief that it would be better. But at what price?

As night draped its mantle of darkness across Springtown, torches flared, lanterns glimmered in the branches of the liberty tree. Schraner searched the distant faces in a vain last effort to locate his adopted son. The old farmer suspected he was doomed to failure. He hadn’t really expected to find Henk, but being a man of loyalty and purpose, Schraner made the effort, anyway.

“You nurse that bottle as if it were your mother’s tit,” Will Chaney muttered while watching Padraich O’Flynn sample the contents of a brown glass flask he’d located in his possibles bag.

O’Flynn glanced over at Meeks’s henchman. “Why, sure, and whiskey is mother’s milk to a thirsty Irishman.” He raised the flask as if offering a toast to Chaney, then took another pull, allowing the fiery brew to blaze a path through his innards while he surveyed his surroundings.

The ramshackle barn was all that remained of the Petersen farm. A stone foundation where a house had been stood as a mute reminder to the Indian wars of a decade ago. The barn, too, had lain in ruin until a family of Quakers had begun to renovate the place. That family had abandoned the task and headed west for reasons unknown, though rumor had it that ghosts were responsible for driving them off.

The log walls of the barn had been rechinked and the entire structure partially roofed over. Moonlight flooded the rear half of the barn, warring with the lanterns the men had lit to dispel the gloom at the front.

“They say this homestead is haunted.” Al Dees leaned on his rifle. He licked his lips and wished he’d brought along a supply of spirits for himself. He even considered clubbing the Irishman over the head and taking the flask for himself. He indulged his fantasy for a few moments. Then reality intruded. Who was he kidding. There was nothing worse than a hardheaded Irishman.
I’d probably bust my rifle stock on the bastard’s thick skull
, Dees cautioned himself.

“Well, if there be a ghost about I hope she stands about so tall,” O’Flynn said, holding his hand out from his chest. “And has hair the color o’corn tassels and sweet white breasts for me to lay me head upon when day is done.”

“Old fool,” Chaney growled. “Your day’ll be done if the major catches you tippling that whiskey.” Knife and whetstone in hand, he began to trace small circles on the roughened surface of the sharpening stone with the steel blade. A slovenly brawler by nature, Chaney was fastidious when it came to the care of his weapons. No knife blade was sharp enough, no rifle barrel so clean that another swabbing wouldn’t increase the gun’s accuracy. He was a man of singular purpose gifted with narrowly channeled abilities. He knew how to kill.