The Crafters Book Two (4 page)

Franklin rose, his own plate in hand. “I must tell you both how wonderfully I slept last night, anticipating the surcease tonight’s work will bring. Thank you, thank you. Well, eat not to fullness, drink not to elevation, a wise man said. I’ll leave you to your private audience with Jim.”

Madison was massaging the bridge of his nose with one small hand.

“You seem tired, sir,” said Andrew. “Will you play a large role in today’ s Congress?”

“A large but quiet one.” Madison’s voice was high and light. “I’ve prepared an extensive proposal which my good friend Hamilton will explain to the Congress, his voice and manner being more suitable for public speaking than mine. It will be, I’m afraid, a challenging summer.”

“Maybe more so for you,” said Calliope, “for I hear you are a considered and just man, both in your governing and in your personal affairs.”

“Doubtless my Dolley would disagree with you somewhat, but thank you just the same. And I’m sure you would like to call upon those very qualities in me now, would you not?” When he smiled, Madison looked almost charming.

“Oh yes, sir. Please, sir. It’s about a most honorable man, a man who only wished for the freedom to marry his true love and establish a family that he would support by his own honest work. The simple dream of many a man.” Calliope sat beside Madison, her dark eyes moist. Andrew thought how beautiful she was, how much love she had for this lucky Billy. “Mr. Madison, many of us sacrificed for the Revolution. But we won our freedom. And this man has been jailed merely for coveting that liberty for which we all paid the price of so much blood. That liberty we have proclaimed so often to be the right and worthy pursuit of every human being.”

“Miss Calliope,” said Madison. “How appropriate the name. I declare, you would challenge my old friend Hamilton for persuasiveness. I must reward such ardency, if I can. But what man is this whom I can so affect?”

Calliope laid her hand lightly on his sleeve. “Your valet, Billy.”

“Ah.” Madison sat straighter. “I see. You’re an Abolitionist then, Miss Calliope? That’s what inspires your words so.”

“I’m a Negress, Mr. Madison.” Calliope stretched her own neck to its most regal. “That’s what inspires my words so.”

Madison blinked several times. Then he took Calliope’s hand into his own. “I had no notion. It’s as I’ve grown to understand. There is no difference among men, among races.” He looked at her pale gold skin a moment. “Say we make special arrangements for Billy. His case is not popular with my neighbors in Virginny. So say we send him someplace more accommodating. Philadelphia perhaps. Perhaps to work in a victualizing house, much like this one. For a good master, much like Mr. Gant. And say we draw him the contract of an indentured servant, so that at the end of seven years, his freedom is his own and he can live and work—and marry as he likes.”

“Oh, sir.” Calliope brought Madison’s hand to her lips and kissed it. Andrew saw him flush all the way up his high forehead. “It’s just. It’s merciful. Can you send a letter on it today, since the Congress has just started?”

Madison threw back his head and roared. “Priceless woman! I observe those tears are sincere, yet still you keep me timely. Of course I will send my letter today.”

“I brought paper and pen for my own work,” volunteered Andrew. “But you can use some now if you wish.”

Madison thanked him, and bent his head over the paper.

When he’d finished his letter, which he folded and promised to hand to the secretary of the Congress for posting, he looked at Andrew. “You’ve been a quiet young man. What is this work you speak of?”

“Astrology, sir—”

“Oh,” Madison was enlightened. “You’re Smithson, the astrologer who wrote me the letter.”

“Andrew!” said Calliope. “How considerate of you.”

“Thank you, sister,” said Andrew. “And I still make the offer, Mr. Madison. To cast a chart for the Constitutional Congress.”

“Yes, please.” Madison’s grey eyes warmed. “My plantation has prospered, Mr. Smithson, not nominally because of sage advice from several astrologers. June, 1787. We’re talking of a Cancer nativity for the Congress, are we not? Hmmm, a mutable sign.”

“There are actually twelve celestial houses to consider, Mr. Madison,” said Andrew. He had his tables out and was noting any crucial aspects in opposition. “And each house has its say in the horoscope. None rules the other.”

Madison nodded. “Like the thirteen states, each with their own constitutions.”

“Well, yes,” said Andrew. “I’m not a political man, but that would seem reasonable. And though Cancer would be the sun sign, we really see a checking and balancing influence among the Sun sign, the rising sign, and the house in which the Moon falls. Three influences augmenting and mitigating each other.”

“Checking and balancing—I like that. My Virginia Plan, I can let you know, says something similar. I propose three separate branches of Federal Government, each one checking and balancing the other ... Yes, yes, I will lay this out for Hamilton this morning. Oh, excellent. What a help you’ve been, Mr. Smithson!” Madison jumped up from the table. “A busy day for us all, eh? Miss Calliope, an honor. Mr. Smithson, good luck.”

He scampered from the room, leaving Andrew looking dejectedly at his notes. “I was going to tell him he has wonderful auspices in the third house. The house of cooperation among peers.”

Calliope kissed Andrew’s cheek. “Maybe he’ll discover it for himself.”

* * *

The clouds overhead covered the moon, leaving a darkness so intense the lantern light seemed ripped away by the wind.

Andrew, Calliope, Franklin, and Franklin’s secretary, Peter Martin, stood on a hillside outside the city. Also present, though only Andrew could see him, was Franklin’s elemental.

Franklin was divesting himself of his clothes, hanging each article over the proffered arm of his secretary. He saw Andrew staring at him. “Men take more pains to mask than mend,” he said, merrily tugging off one stocking.

The elemental Franklin was still fully dressed. It shook its head. “Joyful will I be to escape these homilies,” it said. “In my original state, I had no need of words or clothes or houses or books. Indeed, you may have been hard pressed then to speak with me, my speech was so strange and random.”

Now Franklin was tugging down his breeches.

“Calliope, are you going to stand there gawking?” called Andrew. “Cover your eyes, girl, or your mother will hear of this.”

Calliope, holding a parchment kite with a long muslin tail, gave him an impudent grin, then turned her back to Franklin.

The old man began to caper in the moonlight, skinny shanks flashing, pot belly jiggling. “This was how I did the first experiment, children. That didn’t show up in my writings, though, did it, Andrew? Heh heh heh.”

“I’m glad we can speak,” said Andrew to the elemental.

They had been conversing for the past hour, at Franklin’s house, in the carriage, now on the hill. The others had at first been disconcerted and confused, but soon grew used to Andrew’s one-sided conversations. The elemental didn’t know science, but it did know its own nature. “Opposites on either side of the kite string, you said?” Andrew asked. “You mean, like a magnet with its two opposite forces?”

“That is it exactly,” said the elemental. “I move most at ease along paths set for me with just that positivity and negativity.”

“I feel rain,” cried Calliope, holding her face to the sky.

“We’d better send this kite up now.”

A flash lit the dark clouds; then a boom of thunder sounded.

The elemental seemed to be less distinct, almost gaseous, though it shone as brightly as ever. It lifted its arms to the sky. “I feel them!” it cried. “My kind await me.”

“Send up the kite,” said Andrew. They’d already fastened an iron key to it. Now Franklin’s secretary took the ball of string from Calliope and began backing away, unrolling it as he went.

“Oh, this airbath is delightful,” called Franklin, still capering. “Did you ever hear of the Hellfire Club? Regular airbaths we had, men and women together, no shame at all. Lovely, lovely. Only the British could be so cultured and free at the same time.”

“Run with it,” called Calliope to the secretary. Andrew saw her shoot a sidelong look at Franklin, then grimace and look away.

A spatter of rain began just as Peter Martin tugged the kite from Calliope’s hands. The kite soared out of the lantern light and disappeared.

“Is it up? Is it up?” called Franklin delightedly.

“Yes, sir, I feel it tugging,” said Peter Martin. “Will you take the string?”

“Thank you for interceding,” said the elemental. “Though in my original state, I would not have known gratitude either. Perhaps this miserable old lecher taught me some worthwhile things after all.”

Another flash lit the sky. The thunder roll was almost immediate.

“You’re welcome,” said Andrew. “And I’m grateful to you, for your helpful discourse and for showing me my Talent.” He couldn’t wait to take his tale to Grandpa Jim and the Crafter cousins. Such a successful combination of science and magic was rare even in their family history.

“The storm should be closer,” called Franklin. The silhouette of his kite could be seen only at each lightning flicker.

“It is close. They’re just waiting for me,” said the elemental. “That silly old coot. I’ll almost miss him. Tell him that for me.”

“Mr. Franklin,” called Andrew as the elemental walked toward the naked man now starting to shiver in the rain and wind. “He wants you to know he’ll miss you.”

Franklin turned to face him, face bemused in the lantern light. “Miss me? He will?”

“But not much,” said the elemental. It took one more step forward, and now it and Franklin stood in the same place, almost in the same body. The clouds seemed to split open, a fork of lightning as crooked as the Devil’s tongue raced across the sky directly toward the tiny dark diamond of the kite.

The results were almost instantaneous: the kite exploded, a ball of light flashed skyward from where Franklin stood, and a boom of thunder flattened all four people to the ground.

Andrew sat up in the now-pouring rain. His chest felt bruised and his ears rang. It took a moment to orient himself. Then he saw that Calliope lay nearby. He crawled to her. Her eyes were closed, but she was still breathing. Andrew gasped her name and gathered her to him. He rocked her for what seemed forever. Then he felt her stir and heard her say,

“Did you see that lightning!”

“Yes, sweetheart, I saw it. Are you all right? Can you stand?”

“Of course I can.” Calliope’s tone was indignant. But when she stood, she wobbled and had to hold onto Andrew for balance.

“Mr. Franklin, Mr. Franklin.” Peter Martin knelt beside the old man. He’d covered Franklin with his own jacket. “Can you hear me, sir? Wake up. Wake up.”

Andrew and Calliope staggered over. “Is he injured?” said Andrew. There were no burns or marks on Franklin’s body.

“I feel fine,” said Franklin, opening his eyes then. He looked around at them and smiled. “What a capital adventure!”

In the light of the lantern, his face looked calmer, wiser. And what was more, the look he gave Calliope was grandfatherly, Andrew realized. That gleam was finally gone from his eye.

* * *

The crowd of young men around Calliope at the Green Dragon Inn the next day was as thick as ever.
They must know she’ll be leaving to meet her sweetheart in Virginia,
thought Andrew. The realization that he might burst into tears at her departure both frightened and amazed him. She was his little sister, he kept telling himself.
Put these feelings away
.

She came over to Andrew sitting by himself with a chilled mug of cider. “It took two baths to wash the mud and twigs from my hair,” she said. “Remember when we used to do Indian dances in the rain?”

“Yes.” She was wearing dark crimson and looked very beautiful. He didn’t want to prolong the inevitable. “You’ll be leaving right away with your message for Billy?”

“No, not right away.” Her eyes slid away from his. “I may stay here awhile longer. Or maybe travel back to Boston with you to see my family.”

“But what about Billy?”

Calliope gave him a confused look. “I wrote Janine the good news. She should be the one to tell him anyway; they’re planning to marry.”

Andrew gaped. “Janine, your cousin?”

“Yes.”

“Your Virginia cousin?”

“Yes. Andrew, what are you going on about? Is it that you don’t want me to travel with you back to Boston?”

“Of course I want you—” Emboldened, he took a breath and babbled. “I want you to go with me to Europe, Calliope, to Italy, to meet my friend Count Volta. I’m certain we’ll make headway with our experiments now with what I’ve learned. Will you come?”

To his amazement, Calliope put her hands to her face and burst into tears. When he put a comforting arm around her, she jerked away. “No! How could you treat me this way? White men often take black mistresses, but I expected better of you. I don’t think I can bear it.”

He took her by both shoulders. “Calliope. Calliope King, look at me. Did you think that’s what I was offering? No, I love you truly and want to marry you. Your mother always taught us all men and women were the same. Well, she wasn’t quite correct. There is no other woman like you. And you’re the only kind of woman I’d want to marry.”

When she brought her hands down, Calliope’s thick eyelashes were wet with tears. He wanted to kiss them away, and promised himself to follow through with that later.

“To Italy, you said?” smiled Calliope. “I have your answer, then,
signore. Si, bellisimo, molte molte bene.”

Ireland

Anno Domini 1781

While some of the Crafters moved west with the American frontier, others chose to stay in the Boston area. Before the War for Independence one of the most successful of these had been Eben Crafter. Using his native wit and family skills, Eben founded what soon became one of the most successful trading companies in the city. When the war came he was elected Captain of the Boston Militia. When the British occupied the city, Eben’s business and home were confiscated the same week as the Declaration of Independence was signed.

Rather than being discouraged by the loss of most of his wealth, Eben took heart in the cause of the new nation. He rose quickly in the ranks of the Continental Army and was mentioned twice by Washington in his dispatches to the Congress. As a reward for his services, Eben was promoted to the rank of major and given the position of second in command of the single-most vital fortress in all the states, West Point. This new appointment was doubly exciting to Major Crafter, as he would be serving directly under one of the most professional and courageous of all the Continental officers.

But thing did not go as expected, and within a few months Eben found himself in far different circumstances.

Eben Crafter laughed aloud. “I’ve come to Ireland to make my fortune,” he whispered to himself, “a traitor to the Continental Army in America and a reluctant servant to His Majesty, King George III.” He shivered as the cold rain ran down the back of his neck. He whistled “Yankee Doodle” to himself and tried to put his thoughts about himself in some order that made sense.

It was spring in County Tyrone in the northern part of Ireland, April 1781, on the long and wide main street of Cookstown. The first time he’d seen it, a few weeks before, he asked the Crown Surveyor, “Why so wide a main street and why so long?” The surveyor shrugged and said, “When they planned the town in the last century they thought a great city would grow here; the only things that grew were weeds in the street.”

The surveyor had laid out “the meets and bounds” of Eben’s estate that lay to the north and west of Cookstown, the estate he had won from the heir of one of the richest landlords in all of Ireland... . “Do you play whist, Mr. Crafter, or do you still wish to be called Captain Crafter?” sneered one of the lieutenants aboard ship.

Twenty-one-year-old Royal Navy Lieutenant Lord Larne was the eldest son of the Earl of Tyrone. Lord Larne as Third Lieutenant aboard H.M.S.
Trojan,
a man of wealth, small capacity for strong drink, and an inflated idea of his ability at cards. Larne had a great hooked nose that made Crafter think of a hungry hawk; that and his deeply pocked face made him almost as ugly as the mean spirit within him.

Crafter played with quiet skill, winning £500 in silver during the first week out of New York. During the second week Lord Larne suggested the simple game of
Vingt-et-un,
or Twenty-one, that two could play. Crafter agreed, for part of the Talent—his ability to transmute ordinary metal to silver—also enabled him to see through playing cards. He was the only one in his family who could.

At the end of the third week Lord Larne deeded 10,000 acres of land around Cookstown, County Tyrone, Ireland, to Eben Crafter formerly of Malden, in what had been the Royal Colony of Massachusetts, in lieu of £7,000 in losses at cards.

Eben did not sorrow for Lord Larne, for he was a fool and, after all, he would be Earl of Tyrone when his time came.

He did sorrow for his lost honor and his lost country ... that late September day when the Commanding Officer of the Fortress of West Point on the Hudson River, Major General Benedict Arnold ordered, “Come with me, bring the plans of the Fort.”

Crafter followed the General in his blue-and-buff dress uniform. Arnold was the man he most admired in the whole Continental Army, Arnold the hero at Ticonderoga, hero at Montreal, hero at Valcour Island in Lake Champlain, and Arnold of Saratoga fame. He had served with Arnold since before Saratoga.

He thought he knew everything about the stolid businessman from Connecticut, and he was sure there was no greater leader in the Continental Army. Crafter followed Arnold without question down the steep steps to the jetty on the river, joined him in the small boat that pulled out into the river. He soon found himself under the guns of the Sloop of War H.M.S.
Vulture
which was anchored a few miles below the great chain—l,097 feet of links of bar iron, 12” x 18” links secured to log pontoons that floated just under the surface of the river—the chain that protected West Point and all north of the Fortress.

Only then did Crafter know that Arnold was changing sides.

“Well, lad, what of you? I am sending a letter to General Washington today explaining why I had to do as I did. I can send you back with the letter suggesting that you knew nothing of my plans—you did not, for I told no one—poor Major André was captured and from that moment, I was a dead man! I will add a
nota bene:
‘In justice to my officers, Colonel Varick, Major Franks, and Captain Crafter, I am honor-bound to declare that they, as well as Joshua Smith, Esq. (who I know is suspected) are totally ignorant of any transaction of mine that they had reason to believe injurious to the public.’ ”

Crafter wondered what it would be like to live in America suspected of treason to the end of his days. Life in his America was over; England it was, for better or worse. “I’ll follow you, sir,” said Eben Crafter.

From Bristol, where H.M.S.
Trojan
landed, Crafter took a coach to London. There he was presented at court as “ ... a loyal son of the Crown, who was once misled but has now returned to the fold.” He was amazed that he was awarded £500 by the hand of the Prince of Wales. “You are a good lad,” the Prince said. “The people at the War Office tell me that the plans of the American fortress are quite valuable.”

The Prince was fat, stupid, smelled of too much perfume, and had a decided lisp. Eben Crafter wondered what would become of England when “Prinny” became King.

Now, in the spring rain he contemplated his fortune: 10,000 acres of land, a run-down manor house, an ancient hill fort with earthen walls, and, just west of Cookstown, a beetling mill—a water-powered mill that processed linen.

The water-powered mill propelled sturdy wooden hammers, or “beetles,” over raw wet linen to give it smoothness and sheen. The mill was the only part of the property in good order and repair. The “Manor House” had been built in the 1730’s and had never been maintained or repaired.

As the rain ceased for a while Crafter saw Thomas D’Arcy, his young solicitor, crossing the street toward him. “What is it that brings you out on a damp day like this?” he asked.

D’Arcy pulled his cloak closer to his thin body. “There’s someone looking for you, Justice of the Peace Benjamin Blackman.”

“Who is he?” Crafter wanted to know.

“A lackey of the Earl of Tyrone and an officer of the Crown Courts,” said D’Arcy. “He is not a man to cross.”

“I have never met him, so not to worry, friend solicitor.”

D’Arcy pointed across the street. “He’s coming—that’s his aide, Captain Smithers, with him—and there, as usual, is his poor wife about ten steps behind.”

Crafter watched as the gigantic figure in a rusty black greatcoat crossed toward them. He was trailed by a short grey-haired man wearing a red-coat uniform with Scots-type trews instead of the usual knee breeches. But it was the big man who demanded attention. His large body was topped by a small, reddish bald head thrust forward with a cruel, down-turned beaklike nose. He resembled the savage turkey vultures of the Berkshires in Eben’s native Massachusetts. He had always been repelled by the carrion-eating scavengers, and he felt the same revulsion for the rapidly approaching figure.

“Crafter, is it not?” the big man croaked in a raspy voice. “I have been looking for you! I am Justice Blackman.”

“Indeed,” said Crafter. “Why?”

“My friend, Lord Larne, wrote me that you cheated him of his lands near Cookstown.”

“He is a fool and he lies,” Crafter said in a soft voice.

“MY FRIEND IS A LIAR?” Blackman roared. “YOU WILL RETRACT THAT STATEMENT OR FACE ME IN A DUEL!” His face became redder.

“A fool and a liar,” repeated Crafter.

Blackman turned to D’Arcy. “Will you act for this ...
gentleman?”
he asked, sneering the word. “Captain Smithers will act for me. He will be in the Crown Inn half an hour from now.” He moved swiftly away across the street.

Captain Smithers bowed to D’Arcy and followed. Slowly Blackman’s wife moved after them; as she passed she whispered quietly, “He wants you dead. Lead will not kill him—
silver
will.”

D’Arcy shook his head. “He meant to provoke a duel.”

“So it seems,” said Crafter. “Go meet with the Captain.”

* * *

“Four o’clock this afternoon; that’s only five hours from now,” said a very worried D’Arcy when he returned to his chambers where Eben Crafter waited.

“Do you have a pistol, Mr. D’Arcy?”

“Yes, I carry it on all my journeys to Dublin; the roads are not always safe.”

“May I have it? I would also like an hour alone here before we meet Mr. Blackman.”

“Here is the pistol; my chambers are yours,” said the young solicitor as he left Crafter alone.

Eben took the small bag of lead bullets, selected one, concentrated, then poured the gunpowder into the barrel, inserted the silver bullet, and tamped in the wadding over it.

* * *

At four, in a field two miles south of town they waited.

Captain Smithers gave the instructions; D’ Arcy called out, “Take ten steps, turn, wait for my order to fire. One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, TURN.” At once, Blackman fired but missed. “Foully done!” shouted D’Arcy.

Crafter slowly aimed his pistol, waited, then fired. Blackman was hit. He burst at once into roaring red flames. In less than a minute there was nothing left but a smoking small pile of ash that stank of sulphur.

“Mr. D’Arcy, Mr. Crafter, did you see what I saw?”
Captain Smithers screamed in horror. Then, as though swiftly thinking better of the consequences of relating such a wild tale to others, he gathered himself and spoke more calmly, though with a tremor. “Oh, no, I saw nothing, I was not here, was not here. Justice Blackman was summoned to, to ... Dublin Castle and so I will swear ... and you, gentlemen? ...and you?”

D’Arcy said, “I will speak for Mr. Crafter and myself: We saw nothing ... we were not even here, you agree?”

As they rode back to town, D’Arcy said, “You are the most interesting client I have ever had. Will there be more surprises?”

“Perhaps,” said Eben Crafter. “Perhaps.”

* * *

“The roof is slate, Squire,” said Joe Burke, the property’s caretaker, “but it needs new slates on the ridge line and along the eaves. The original slates came from Wales, and they are expensive. We might get some cheaper from an old house that burned last year down in Ballygally. They saved most of the slates after the fire.”

Crafter grinned at Burke. “I’m not a squire.”

“Yes, you are, sir,” Burke whispered. “I can see that. Now, young Lord Larne was no squire—he could never be a squire for all his titles and high and mighty ways and all his money.”

“What makes a squire, Burke?” Crafter wanted to know.

“That’s easy, sir, he has to care about the land and his buildings, and he has to care for the folk who live on his lands.”

Crafter thought a bit. “I see. Well, I shall try.”

So Eben Crafter, late of America, found himself a landlord with a caretaker whose wife, Bridgit, cooked in the Irish fashion—in the worst sort of way: boiling the living daylights out of everything. Crafter also had over a hundred tenant-farm families, a mill that processed linen from his lands and from surrounding holdings, and a house very much in need of repair. He needed money to rebuild barns, money to pay farm workers, money to pay house servants. He needed the Talent.

Early one afternoon in late April he locked himself in his bedroom with orders that he was not to be disturbed until noon the next day. He took with him twenty bronze plates, each weighing some twenty-five pounds. He also had ten silver coins from Spain and a handful of English silver shillings.

He concentrated on the silver coins until he had their form and weight fixed firmly and clearly in his mind. Then he put his hands to the bronze plates. A pale blue light seemed to pour from his fingertips; then each bronze became a pile of silver coins. It took hours. As always, he was physically and emotionally drained. He slept until ten in the morning of the next day.

“Burke, saddle my horse,” Crafter said as he came out into a rare sunny morning. “I’m going to Cookstown for workers to fix the house and barns.” He added, “You come, too, for you speak the Gaelic and we’ll need common laborers. We’ll also need help from the tenants.”

As they rode into the great empty street of the town, they met a couple riding out—a tall man with a bald, skull-like head riding a black stallion, and a girl, a beautiful girl, riding a roan horse that was the tallest horse Crafter had ever seen, eighteen hands, at least. The girl had long red hair that flowed out behind her. Her skin was milk-white, and the figure Eben could make out beneath her flowing green cloak was breathtaking. As they passed he saw her eyes—green with flecks of gold. She smiled at him.