Chapter 8: Charcoal and Politics

After a long and dreary April, it was early May before the colliers were able to ring out the fresh-made charcoal from the first dark dome of slowly-burning wood. By then Matt and most of his crew had been two weeks without a full night's sleep as they tended the huge, rumbling "pit." Now they raked it out slowly, wagon load by wagon load, perhaps two hundred warm bushels at a time, always alert for flare-ups, hot and dirty work with no way to stop until they finished. Matthew still wondered how MacCorm knew it was ready, that the almost-airless fire had burned all the way to the bottom and nearly to the rim, but he guessed that experience and the feel of the long pole the big man poked into the stack could somehow tell him.

They let the steaming pit-surface rest a day and got an unbroken ten-hour sleep, and then went right back to work while other teams were tending their own huge mounds of baking cordwood in stumbling, red-eyed shifts. First Matt's crew renewed the low bank of crumbling charcoal dust all around the circular pit floor. Then Nikko and his mates delivered sleds of lapwood, saplings and cut limbs up to three inches or so in diameter. This was piled all around the hearth on the bank of charcoal dust and more was placed in the center of the ring followed by the first level of four-foot billets, stacked on end and as tightly together as possible.

While Matthew and the other members of MacCorm's team did this tedious work, he began "setting" the pit by placing a long, straight pole of green wood right in the center to act as a sort of chimney. Around this "fagan," as they called it, the experienced men loosely wove some of the freshest lapwood. When the vertically stacked wood had nearly reached the rim of the circle, the workers built up the chimney with more small sticks, and then they began laying the second level of cordwood, stepping carefully atop the primary, sometimes-wobbly layer as they did. All the billets leaned toward the center, particularly on the "waist," the second level, and of course, had more lean as they neared the built-up edge. Finally the colliers covered the whole stack, including its sloping "shoulders," with several inches of interlaced lapwood until they had created a dome that was some ten or twelve feet high in the middle and held about fifty cords of split timber.

MacCorm supervised the work and had his crew fill in any large spaces between the billets as they went along. Using ladders made from notched pine-tree trunks, the men spread a thick layer of damp leaves over the wood and followed that with about six inches of charcoal dust hauled up in large wicker baskets.

By the time they were finished, the whole crew was as black as Nikko. They headed for the river to bathe, clothes and all, laughing at each other's appearance, dunking one another and splashing like schoolboys. Meanwhile MacCorm filled the skinny chimney around the fagan with dry tinder and shoveled in some glowing coals. He then plugged up the hole at the top with some split wood and more charcoal dust. It was started. He joined his dusky men in the shallow river, and they passed around a stoneware bottle while they washed themselves, blowing their noses repeatedly to clear the dust-clogged passages.

The colliers in MacCorm's crew celebrated that evening but broke up their party early with still a half keg of good ale undrunk. They needed to get as much sleep as they could. The next morning at breakfast, while Matthew and his friends itched to see how their new pit was doing, Jacob Martz stood atop the table at the front of the long mess hall and yelled for attention. banging on an empty pot with a big spoon. It did not take him long to get it. His voice rattled the windows and door frames. He was, everyone saw, angry and upset.

"Men, please, all uf you, listen here," he cried, holding up both arms. "Sad vords has from Boston come. Parliament, dose..." he sputtered seeking an adjective in his English vocabulary that was vile enough. Not finding one, he went on. "Parliament has d'port closed undt d'people's gofernment dey haf taken avay in Boston, in Massa-zusetts." He carefully spaced the next words and swung his gaze from left to right: "Ve could be next."

Shouted questions and curses filled the room. Martz waved them down, shaking his grizzled head, waving both hands. Then he spoke again, at lower volume, rumbling, his hands clasped in his back.

"If dis interests you, angers you as it does me, dis effening, ve meet here at sundown. Vhat has happened in Boston could at Fells Point happen or Annapolis morgen, tomorrow." He climbed down, and the table conversations mounted again as reactions spread back and forth through the hall like a rip tide in a narrow-banked stream.

It had been around the first of the year when Matthew and the others living on the sprawling iron plantation learned some of the details of the "tea party" in Boston. A few ribald jokes about the possible antics of war-painted Yankees went the rounds, but then it was mostly forgotten, filed away with the older stories of British indignities and the tales of the last Lord Baltimore's shoddy behavior. Now this. Matt put his mind back on his work, stuffed a heel of bread in one pocket, an apple in the other and went up the hill to his job.

Tending the pit meant controlling the amount of air that got to the growing fire which burned slowly from the top down and from the center outward. When MacCorm's crew looked at their big, black dome, they were pleased to see a thin trickle of blue smoke emerging from around the fagan spike. They began opening breathing holes on the side away from the wind.

All day they took turns with long handled rakes and shovels, quickly closing the holes when the wind shifted to blow into them and opening them wider along the "foot" when the trickle of smoke slowed or stopped. Next to them another crew had started "ringing out" their first charcoal of the season and behind them the second furnace was almost ready to cook its virgin batch of iron ore, oyster shells and fresh charcoal. Prosperity, decided Matthew, was in the air.

They ate and slept by turns, never leaving their pit untended until long after nightfall when the wind usually died down and even then always having men awake on two hour shifts in case fire broke out through the thick coat of soggy leaves and matted dust. Just before sundown, MacCorm mounted the log ladder's notched steps and walked around on the small, warm mountain of slowly burning wood. He was looking for soft spots, he called them "mulls," where the fire might find an exit in a vagrant wind, create a new chimney and burn too fast. He found one with his booted heel on the shoulder of the new pit and called for a shovel. The foreman carefully scraped off the covering and had a few baulks of split wood tossed to him and then asked Matthew to bring him an armload of lapwood.

Matt had never stepped on a burning pile before, and he climbed carefully and walked as if on eggshells, fearing he-was-not-sure what but knowing hell lay beneath his stiff-soled boots. The footing was soft, warm and uneven. He handed MacCorm the sticks one by one and watched him poke them into the glowing hole until it was tightly filled. Someone threw a rake up on the mound and together Matt and his sweating boss carefully covered the mull with a thick layer of leaves and then several inches of charcoal dust. Satisfied MacCorm tramped on the patch and told Matt to get on down. The boss walked around the dome once more and then clambered down the log ladder himself. From then on, he trusted Matt and his compatriots to care for that pit.

"Dere's going to be a meeting in Annapolis Saturday, dis Samstag," Martz announced after the men in the hall had grabbed some supper and found a bench. "Ve can't all go. Each crew, pick a representatiff or two villing to make the trek and raise his voice at d'liberty tree. Ve ain't goin' down chust to drink and whore. Vhat happens next, I don' know. No one knows, ja? Militia companies haf been forming, out in the countryside, landlischers, jaegers. If you free men are interested, let me know. I more can find out."

"What's goin' on, I mean up in Boston, Jake?" someone yelled out.

"Dey iss punishing Massajusetts for dumping East India tea, dot's vhat. Dey closed d'port, tight as an ice-cutter's ass. Nothin' in or out til d'tea dey pay for. £10,000 dey say, ten thousant. Other colonies iss forbidden, you hear now, to help dem is forbidden! Food ve can't send dem efen."

"That all?" asked a different voice. "They made their bed."

"No, ferdammen, dere iss more, still. Troops, Redcoats, dey is sending undt in folk's houses lifing, perhaps, ja. Trials for most anything dey don't like, dey back in England vill be," he raised his voice and pounded the table once, "ja, before a British jury."

"No," several yelled. "That ain't right," another loudly said, standing and looking around. Matthew held his peace, surprised at raw emotion he saw and felt.

"Dere's more," Martz said, and he waited for quiet with a hand raised. "Das General Gage now is gofernor."

"Surely that's enough," MacCorm said, sounding both sad and angry, shaking his head.

"No, John, dere iss more, for all of us. Listen, listen. Ohio Country is now closed, veschlossen. Closed! Ve're all to stay here, east of d'verdamnt Appalachians, here, penned in like dogs, like sheep."

That news brought the greatest outcry yet. Men stood, raised fists and yelled out their anger. Martz waved his hand again.

"All d'Vest's been gifen to," he paused and looked around making sure everyone was listening, "to Canada, to d' Papists, to Kah-bec." Martz turned and feigned spitting on the floor.

"Why don't our Assembly act, do somethin'?" MacCorm yelled out.

"Dey're gone, my Junge, dismissed by dat Robert Eden; prorogued is das fancy vord. Our noble gofernor has prorogued dem. And ain't'chu proud uf him in his elegant, brick palace?" Martz said. "So ve must act. Vagons leafe here Saturday at daybreak. Go, choose your men and gif me names soon as you can."

It was as pretty a dawn as Maryland in May can fashion with the bright sun rising across the gold-speckled Bay through layers of fluffy magenta clouds and the yellow-green woods chattering with birdsong, the air sweet with blossoms. Three big wagons full of sleepy workmen trundled down the good-weather road toward Annapolis behind George Martz's light rig, well on their way before the day's first warmth reached them. Sometimes the twenty men sang songs, mostly they talked quietly and, occasionally, invited milk maids or farmers along the way to join them, generally to friendly waves and shy laughter. Matthew sat beside the man who had purchased his bond some five months before, and two more colliers stretched out in the straw behind them, dozing.

"Kind of surprised dey picked you, Mattchu, new as you iss," Martz said, handing him the reins as he refilled his fat pipe. The road was in good condition, recently scraped and little rutted despite the spring rains.

They should arrive in plenty of time for the noon meeting, Matt thought. Might even have time for a beer. "Surprised me, too'" he said, checking that his shillings were still in his pocket. "Guess they figured I was the one they could spare the easiest. I'm still learning 'bout making charcoal your way. Saw my first mull t'other day, kind'a scary it was, shootin' blue flames."

"Uh huh, vell maybe, but I hear you growed somezing uf a name, ein Ruf. Dot's maybe goot." Martz smiled, wreathed in aromatic smoke from a pipe that looked like a fire-blackened knot or boll, a gnarled and misshapen piece of dark wood that filled his crusty palm.

"I haven't 'ad no trouble, not really," Matthew said, jiggling the reins and watching the road unwind before him.

"Oh, how about dat gross Rucker?"

"Warn't much, just a little rassling t'pass the time." Matt grinned remembering the short, violent fight.

"Ach, I saw him. Teeth he vas spittin', von eye ge-closed tight, undt him transported for killing a man in a Bristol tavern."

"He 'it me a pretty good lick, too," Matt said, feeling his jaw and the place beside his eyebrow that the cook had stitched up for him.

"How you get on vith MacCorm?"

"Fine. He got any complaints?"

"No, nein, but ve are now lookin' for men to send to Frederick Town. He out dere may go for my kind uf job. Ve open a new furnace soon. Old Tom Johnson's got his Catoctin place pouring out pig iron like it vas beer. Ve vant to keep up mit him." He sucked his pipe. "Ve need more men out dere who many different tings can do. More convict labor or slafes ve buy, depends, ja."

Matthew thought about that. "Same kind of bounty? I like 'aving a few shillings t'spend. You know MacCorm took us into Baltimore Town right after bonuses got paid out. Huh. Girls wasn't nowhere good as Jean, but it 'ad been a while. Got the pipes cleared."

"Dere's girls in Frederich," Martz said. "Nice, healthy girls. Tink about, ja. Ve can order you, a redemptioner. Better if you vanted."

Matthew thought about it, and since he had nothing better to do, he thought about Benjamin briefly and then about Elizabeth. Wonder where she is? I should be able to find out. They registered my paper in Baltimore Town so hers should be listed in Annapolis. Have to look into that. I did promise her, promised her poor husband really.

Course, there sure is some pretty women 'round here. What was the name of those two young girls who said they would buy her indenture? Conway, O'Connor, something like that. Ought to have time to do that and get a beer, too. maybe get rogered as well. He massaged his groin and stretched, admired the soft hills, random woodlots and carefully tilled fields where a scattering of green sprigs had already risen. He did not believe he had ever felt so healthy. Nothing wrong with hard work and good food, he thought. Sunlight flickered on his broad, unshaven face.

The mass meeting in Annapolis was street politics at its loudest and most vulgar. Rezin Hammond and John Hall seemed to be the leaders of the wildest and noisiest faction, the one that demanded British blood instantly and even urged the formation of a militia unit to march on Boston that night with a wagon train of food and guns. The moderating Carrolls and their wealthy friends were often shouted down by the more militant members of the Country Party who had split with big Sam Chase and his moderate followers earlier that year.

The growing anti-proprietary group was still fragmenting, and the most impatient and ill-tempered were successfully grabbing for power, now sometimes calling themselves the Popular Party. William Paca had joined the fray after being a useful spy in the governor's camp, but even he found himself labeled soft and lenient by the firebrands from the outlying precincts of Anne Arundel County. Any warnings that Annapolis could end up like Boston were hooted down. The mob was, as many in it would happily admit, "liberty mad."

Matthew and the other iron workers from Baltimore shouted and marched with the big crowd jostling along in the narrow streets of the capital after they assembled near Bladen's Folly. Many of the brick houses they passed had closed lower shutters and some had slaves standing guard at the front doors, arms folded, eyes wary, cudgels nearby. One of those was the fine home William Buckland had built for the Conroys where Priscilla and Anne watched the marchers through the curtains of their second floor window. Priscilla thought the scene was disgusting and said so while Anne found it exciting, particularly after she spotted Billy Fields carrying a slapdash sign protesting unvoted fees. "Only Marylanders Tax Marylanders" it said in dripping, black letters with a noose sketched in the corner.

Mr. Conroy told his wife and daughters at dinner that they might have seen the end of Lord Baltimore's government. He suggested that they should plan on leaving for Pirate's Luck on the Shore as soon as possible. "At least most of the Methodists over there are loyal," he said while he ignored his food and drank his wine. A gnarled vein pulsed on his forehead.

The workers, farmers and lawyers, even a few of the sailors and fishermen who most feared their port being closed, listened to the speeches as best they could and cheered all the calls for action. The fees still being collected and the salaries paid government officials were damned as illegal and labeled immoral as well as blood-sucking.

Demands for canceling debts owed English businesses drew cheers and general applause. Distrust of Scottish factors and falling tobacco prices fueled those outcries as the large debtor class bubbled toward the top in Maryland's rich political stew. Some discreet storekeepers decided it was time to slip away and shutter their windows, blow out their lamps, hide their ledgers and bar their doors. To many well-bred folk in once-genteel Annapolis, the day looked and sounded like revolution. Some loved the sulfurous smell; others feared it.

Finally, the crowd acclaimed a demand for a meeting of representatives of all the counties to consider formal resolves to answer the Parliament's "tyrannical" acts against Boston. A series of speakers revealed that some county seats and other tidewater towns had already held such meetings, passed inflamed resolutions and chosen eager delegates to a yet-to-be-scheduled convention, and now the almost-happy mob, after one last march around the Stadt House circle and one more set of huzzahs at the Liberty Tree, was sent home with instructions to choose delegates in the hinterlands for a formal meeting in late June. "Send us no milksops," cried the florid-faced Hammond, his arms spread wide. "We need men of action, lean and hungry men who sleep not."

"I'm going t'walk down to the docks, if y'don' mind," Matthew told Jacob Martz as the crowd broke up into small knots of excited men that soon filled every ordinary to the doorsills. "I'll meet you back at the livery stable, won' take long."

Martz nodded and headed for the nearest tavern. After a short search, Matt found someone at the harbormaster's shack who understood what he wanted to know and was willing to talk to him.

"Awful busy today," the young man said, closing his large, ruled book, wiping his pen and setting it aside. He adjusted his folding spectacles on his long nose.

"I understand. What I need to know is about sellin' off indentured folks. Who keeps the records?"

"Well, we don't, that's for sure. Now transported criminals, we used to keep track of them. Most likely somebody in the court house, but it's closed today. The ship's purser, maybe. He might have some accounting, but it's likely to be just a row a'figures, no names. Profit's their interest, not people."

"Do you know if the Janet Lune 's been in since December?" Matthew asked.

"Don' think so. Lemme look now, if y'will." He pulled down a small book with "1774" inked on its cloth cover and paged through it mumbling "Janet, Janet, Janet. Ah here, schooner, no, not yet, but she's expected any day now. Overdue, she is. Should have been here first a'the month."

Matt pulled one of his last shillings from his pocket and put it on the young man's desk. "Here," he said, "do me a favor. I can't write worth squat, so write this for me, please, and then get the answer from the Lune's captain or purser if you can; if y'will."

"All right," the man said raising an eyebrow, pocketing the coin and pulling out a half-sheet of foolscap. "What'd you want me to ask?"

"Let's see," Matt said, "just this: who bought Elizabeth? That's it, who bought Elizabeth. That's what I want t'know, an' they'll understand. Don't think they'd forget 'er."

"She the woman in that late ship-load of indentured, onliest one last winter?"

"Yes, did y'hear of aught of 'er?" Matt demanded, fear mixed with curiosity.

"There was some trouble, a ruckus, but I don't know what happened. Talk's all I heard, a nasty business they said. I'll deliver your message and put the answer under this inkwell. If I'm not here, jus' ask for it. What's your name?" He folded the paper and wrote that on its back.

"That's fine," Matt said, sticking out his hand and shaking the young man's firmly enough to cause the clerk to wince. "Thank you. I'll try to get back in a month or so. I'm working up this side a'Baltimore Town, t'ain't far."

Matthew walked up the cobblestone street wondering what sort of "trouble" there had been. He tried to picture Elizabeth's smile, her thin face, slim body and long hair without much success. Did she have gray eyes? He shook his head and decided that indeed she did, gray eyes that could see right through you some mornings.

The sun was still high above the treeline when Martz's light wagon reached the rural settlement where he had bought Matt clothes, a bath and more-than-thorough swiving the day they first met. The other men who had come down with them had stayed in Annapolis to enjoy themselves, promising to get back to the iron works by Monday morning. Since neither of them was a bondservant, Martz quickly gave his blessing.

"Shall ve stop and haf a pint?" Martz asked. "Two maybe?"

"Be fair disappointed if we didn't" Matthew said. "That yelling an' marchin' is thirsty work. I've but a shillin' an' a few pence left."

"Vell, I haf a good vife an' you don't. Undt bezides I vas down here two veeks ago buying some tools. Vhy don't you let dot hŸbsch Jean entertain you, ja, I'll trink some beer. Here's a funfer. Maybe you could get anodder baden. You iss turnin' black vere it shows."

"Thanks, but she's liable to be busy. It's Saturday. Don' a lot of farmers come in?"

"Jean vill make time for you, busy or not. You'll see. She tole me you vere a chentleman, despite what chu look like. She don't see many uf dem. Go, Herr Mattchu." Martz laughed and pushed the young man toward the back of the mud-spattered inn. He did not have to push very hard.

By that fall the first extra-legal convention had met in Annapolis and nonimportation was back in force after being almost ignored in Maryland for several years. The Provincial Convention of late June 1774 had all the ear marks of a governmental body, although it was not one as the governor loudly informed all who would listen. In four days its ninety-two members adopted resolutions, sent off delegates, started a subscription for the people of Boston, and tabled demands that Governor Eden turn over both his power and his gunpowder.

Moderation still ruled, although the Jockey Club, through its hard-working secretary William Eddis, reluctantly cancelled the racing season that fall. Some saw that "tragic" event as the beginning of the end. By then Governor Eden was telling anyone who would listen that control was rapidly draining into the hands of "the very lowest people." When a hurricane damaged the roof and destroyed the cupola of the still- unfinished capitol building, more than a few took it as a sign of the government's disarray and a portent of its long-predicted collapse.