Chapter 17: A New Life

The Conroys, making their home at Pirate's Luck on the Eastern Shore, remained disappointed that the loyal sentiments rampant in some parts of Somerset and Worcester counties had made so few inroads among their neighbors in Queen Anne's. They had entertained James Chalmers several times, and both of the family's young ladies were very tired of hearing about his excessively verbose response to Paine's "Common Sense" or his grandiose plans for raising a Tory legion, which he, of course, would head.

In fact, the fertile region continued to be dominated by members of the huge but divided Tilghman family which had thrived in the area since the mid-17th century. Most of the gentry seemed to think "Rich Neck Manor" by far the best and most hospitable place on the Shore. Matthew Tilghman, member of the Council of Safety, delegate to the Continental Congress, and president of the Convention at the time of independence, regularly and lavishly entertained the revolutionary elite as the current master of that impressive home. Some called him the eyes and ears of Talbot County if not its heart.

The plantation just east of the Conroy's gently rolling land, where Queenstown Creek met the Chester River, was the old DeCourcy manse, "Blakeford," owned and occupied by Solomon Wright whose late-and-still-lamented mother was a DeCourcy. Judge Wright had been an active delegate to several of the noisy Annapolis conventions as well as a signer of the Declaration of Freemen. Now at Queenstown, the county seat, he wore the black cockade on his rusty robes and presided as a special judge "to try Treasons on the Eastern Shore." So far he was being very lenient with "non-associators" and others who refused to go along with what the Conroys and many of their more-reticent friends saw as an unjustified and irresponsible rebellion. Mr. Conroy expected to be summoned before that bench at the next session of the court. He did not relish the thought nor did he wear his red cockade in public any more.

In November, when the new Maryland constitution went into effect and elections were scheduled for the Senatorial electors and members of the House of Delegates, Millard Conroy, as a confirmed "nonjuror," found himself excluded from the political affairs of his native land for the first time in his adult life. He began suffering what one of the local physicians called "the shingles" which added to discomfort.

Many of his friends had taken the oath, discounting it as just a "scrap of paper" that would be meaningless once the Howe brothers had unhorsed Washington, crushed the rebel forces and restored legitimate government. Conroy, whose oath of loyalty had been given to the King, to the Proprietor and to his legal representative, the properly appointed governor, could not bring himself to do so.

At every opportunity Mr. Conroy assured his wife and his worried daughters, as well as his prospective son-in-law, that the new charter was "very conservative" and practically guaranteed that men of substance would retain control of the Maryland government. Roman Catholics had been enfranchised, to the disgust of many, but the new Senate was surely going to be quite aristocratic and even the lower house required a freehold of £500. The governor, who had been assigned only very limited powers, was to be chosen each year by both legislative bodies and had to hold property worth at least £5,000.

Anne and Priscilla privately wondered if their father was thinking about signing the oath and breaking his word to Governor Eden. They never dared ask him.

"But, sir," young James Dulany said, his pudgy hand on the back of Priscilla's carefully-carved, high-backed chair, "they are letting almost any upstart with fifty acres and some worthless paper have the vote. Few of them could be considered gentle folk by any stretch."

"True," Mr. Conroy admitted, as he filled his long clay pipe and wondered how many times he had fed Priscilla's intended since the first of the year, "but for whom can the rabble vote? The county sheriff and their delegate, hah, that's about it for the common herd, my boy. So much for the mob, for democratical influence. There likely aren't two hundred men in this county, in any county, who meet the qualifications for office."

"Yes, that's certainly true," said Dulany, rubbing his carefully shaven face and kneading the flesh beneath his soft jaw line. He adjusted his perfected set wig, a nervous gesture Priscilla had repeated asked him to stop.

"Governor Eden always said that those who started this would be the first to regret it, but I think he was wrong." Millard Conroy shook his head. "A lot of us were wrong. The real threat's economic. We may end up in debtors' prison like poor Reverend McPherson."

"They've claimed Eden's home, you know. Aren't you concerned about having your property taken away by this, this, what shall we call it, eh, this radical new government?" asked the melancholy Dulany. "My uncle certainly is."

"Ah, well he might be." Mrs. Conroy looked up from her ever-present embroidery, still dressed all in black, mourning the disappearance of her only son. "Daniel Dulany numbers his acres by the tens of thousands. I doubt that the rebels will bother us and our few hundred here or my small farm on the other shore."

"It's the paper money, my boy, that may be the death of us all," Millard Conroy admitted, puffing out a long stream of blue smoke. "Debts are being paid with pounds worth tu'ppence. There's no stopping it. Even the Carroll family's feuding over that, torn asunder we hear."

"Oh Daddy," Anne said. "We've gold and silver enough and barns full of tobacco. They can't take that, surely."

"Let's talk about something else," Mrs. Conroy said brightly, "like Priscilla's wedding. Shall we have it here?"

Priscilla looked up at her intended lovingly, and he smiled down at her and adjusted his plain, linen neckcloth. "We've talked about that, James and I," she said, quietly but firmly. "I think, we think we should have it in Annapolis so that our friends may easily attend as well as the members of his large family, at least the ones who are speaking to each other."

Ann stifled a laugh and tried to look interested.

"Well, are you determined on the 28th of December, we need to settle that, get the banns published and secure a license," said Mr. Conroy. "I suppose this rump government still issues marriage licenses."

"The Bay is rough in winter. It would be easier on our guests, especially the older gentry," Mrs. Conroy said, nodding her head in agreement, eyes on her work. "You could have it down at my place, of course, if you want to avoid the capital crowd."

"If there are any guests," Anne said, looking sour. "How many Tories're left?"

"Anne," said her father sharply, "that is not a word we use in this house. We are Loyalists. This is not a political fight. This is insurrection, an unwarranted rebellion. Apologize, miss."

Anne stood quickly, face frozen, dropped a deep curtsey to her step-mother and then to slope-shouldered Jamie Dulany. "I'm sorry," she said and left the room with her head held high, auburn curls bouncing, the family's not-so-secret revolutionary.

"We shall have a fine supper, won't we, father?" Priscilla asked, sounding teary. She sniffed a bit more loudly than she had intended.

"Of course, my dear, and we will open the house in Annapolis and publish the banns and so forth. I have a few bottles in the cellar that we've saved for just this occasion. Will you take care of the paperwork at St. Anne's, m'boy, wherever that rector is holed up now that they've torn his church down?" Mr. Conroy turned to his sleepy-eyed, future son-in-law. "Oh, and see that the Gazette is informed. And you might ask Dr. Scott if we can borrow some of those huge plants in his greenhouse for decoration."

"My pleasure, sir," said the young man, patting his fashionable wig and then twisting the ring on his little finger, another habit his bride-to-be despised. "In a month all this trouble may well be over. Washington's rabble has been chased clear out of New York. I understand that the Philadelphia Congress is moving its seat to Baltimore Town, that den of Whiggery. Ho! Can you imagine such a thing? The end must be near."

"What else needs to be done, Priscilla?" Mrs. Conroy asked, ignoring, as she always did, talk of the conflict. "Clothes you've well taken care of, more than a trunk full, and linens. Let's make a guest list and prepare the menu this week. Shall we have music for dancing?

"Of course," came Anne's enthusiastic answer from the hall where she was spinning to a waltz in her head.

At M'Kenna Disappointment, firmly established on the other side of Mr. Nevers' always-cluttered desk, sat Masterman Wrain, Esquire, the husband of Mrs. Conroy's oldest daughter, Margaret. He was a corpulent, red-faced man in drab but expensively cut clothes and glistening, knee-high boots, almost twenty years his second wife's senior. He wore a carefully-dressed bag wig and a large patriot cockade on his fur-trimmed hat.

The imposition of triple taxes on the land of non-jurors and the factor's terse message that the inspection warehouses at Port Tobacco, Bladensburg and Georgetown were full and could accept no more sot weed this year had forced Nevers' hand in managing the M'Kenna's farm. He had asked for this tense meeting with the family's resident barrister and nominal representative.

"I talked with the innkeeper down there, massive fellow, looks like a smithy. His description convinced me that Andrew was killed a year or so ago. He's willing to make and sign a statement; alleging self-defense of course. I've showed you the sword," Nevers sat back. pleased that he had been able to keep his voice level and his guest well supplied with rye whisky which the man downed as if it were spring water.

"Indeed, however, it will take the courts some time to make an official declaration I fear. Perhaps, in the case of this, ah, this fine young man, we may have to spread a bit of grease on the creaking wheels of justice." Wrain sighed, unsmiling, his dark eyes taking inventory of Nevers' office, the neatly filed papers, the well-oiled furniture, the faded prints. He sipped at his heavy glass.

"And then?"

"Then, my dear wife and her two charming sisters will have ownership of at least one-third of this supposedly thriving plantation, equal shares, and their mother will be the life tenant, as I understand the will although I believe she renounced part of it, somewhat complex I fear. Of course, she has dower rights to a third of the slaves and other personal property. Maryland's laws are most generous to widows, you know. There may be something about her remarriage. I do not recall." He hurried on. "I'm sure the Annapolis barristers can sort it out and take their piece of flesh." Wrain took snuff from the back of his hand. "You'll want to keep your job here, I assume." Without saying so, he made the overseer's position sound like a sinecure of some sort.

"Of course," Nevers said quickly, "but in the meantime, we must pay the infernal taxes and feed and clothe the people."

"Clothe," said Wrain crossly, draining his glass and putting it down with a clatter, "are they not clothed? Do you not spin, dye and weave in the winter months?"

"Of course, both linen and wool, but you understand my meaning."

"Quite. It is time to retrench. There are already many canny Scots about the countryside who are attempting to buy up Tory farms and British-owned land with their ill-gotten gold."

"We could sell off some slaves," Nevers said, feeling his voice rise nervously. "We'll not need as many hands to harvest wheat. The market is high right now with the lower Bay a virtual battleground."

"Dunmore's doing, mostly, that brutish business, inciting slaves, phaw. Howe will likely take Philadelphia next and perhaps this foolishness will be over," Wrain uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, putting his pock-marked, broken-veined nose close to the overseer's face. "Do not repeat that anywhere," he said. "Trust no one, Nevers, no one. I suppose you have investigated the smuggling possibilities on the Patuxent as a prudent manager should."

"The reason I asked to see you, sir, since I've not been able to communicate directly with your mother-in-law, is to apprise your family of the situation." Nevers stated the facts calmly, feeling much better about an interview he had feared and ignoring the overt suggestion of illegal trade, into which he had made several discrete inquiries.

"I see. Well, there's to be a wedding just after Christmas, Priscilla and some slow-witted Dulany boy. A fine match, I'm sure. Jack Sprat in reverse. Can you come up to Annapolis? The whole clan will be gathered, and we may as well settle some of these matters."

"Of course. I will do just that," Nevers said with a forced smile. "In the meantime, I shall use my best judgment."

"Surely you can dispose of some slaves, even fieldhands, if you must," Wrain said. "We have some bond people, do we not?"

"Quite. One's time is up in January, and I must pay him his freedom dues..."

"Be sure to use Maryland script, not silver," Wrain said, with a wink.

"Of course, current money as they call it. The other cooper is Mrs. Conroy's, that is the farm's, for another year, and the Cornish woman has, I believe, about two more years on her contract."

"She, ah now," said Wrain, recrossing his legs with a dour look, "isn't she the one who bore Andrew a child? A bastard girl that fortuitously died?"

Nevers nodded. "He never acknowledged the infant. Mr. Conroy signed her indenture, and he has that paper now."

"He should have added a year to it," said Wrain. "Too late now, I suppose. Can you rent out some land, sell off timber rights?"

Two weeks later, at about the time when the news of the disasters at Forts Lee and Washington reached Annapolis and then trickled down into Prince George's County, Michael Quinn, who called himself Mister Ferris, and insisted on the "Mister," revisited M'Kenna's Disappointment. Business was on his mind, he said, but fear and uncertainty had provoked this interview.

"You have a cooper, a bondsman, who'll soon have served out his time, I believe," Michael asked Mr. Nevers after very brief pleasantries.

"Now how would you know that, Mister Ferris?" Nevers asked, putting down his pen and reassessing this young man with his soft brogue, coppery hair and perpetual smile. One of those ambitious men of "middling" circumstance, he concluded. The war was producing a number of that ilk. profiteers some called them.

"Hah, the birds, my friend, have invisible ears as well as the proverbial walls. I'd like to talk to him, if I may, and I'll make you a good offer for t'other fellow, and while we're about it, you have an indentured female, do you not?"

"Go on," Nevers said, steepling his fingers.

"Say two pounds for the rest of his contract, the cooper, eh, an' I'll be givin' you two more for the woman as well. Our bayonet factory needs reliable help, y'see, an' there's no more comin' in at the present, what with the troubles, the embargo. As you may'a heard, I've taken over Unselt's interests recently." Michael smiled his best, adjusting his neck cloth and the lapels of his mustard-colored coat with its multi-faceted, ebony buttons. Since it was primarily Elizabeth he had come about, he felt he had concealed his hand "indifferently well" as the men he played cards with would say.

"Can't sell her contract. Farm does not own it," Nevers replied carefully, "but we can spare the cooper, that's true enough. We've apprenticed several slaves to take over most of that work. I'm not sure when we'll need another hogshead."

"Might we hire her then, the woman?" Michael asked, disappointed but making an effort not to show it. "Surely you c'n do that, on a yearly basis. And might you have a strong-backed field hand or two you'd be sellin'?"

Nevers began to suspect that this feisty, young red-head had a contact on the huge Wrain plantation in St. Mary's County. "We're considering a slave sale, probably through the Georgetown auction house, early next year," he said.

"Are you now. Well, that's fine, fine," Michael said. "I'll wait on that since that's where we're located. What of the coopers and the woman, then?"

"You can have both the men, if you'll pay the one's freedom dues and give me two pounds for the year that's left on t'other's contract. In silver, you understand. I have the power to sign those over to you."

"Done," said Michael. "An' Elizabeth? What say to, oh, three shillings a month for her services? Good worker, ain't she? I'll pay a year in advance."

"Plus her food, clothing and shelter, you understand?" Nevers said, tempted by the overdue bills on his desk and ignoring the fact that Ferris somehow knew the bondservant's name.

"Naturally," said Michael, feeling the end of the business at hand.

"Very well," said Nevers, reaching out to take Quinn's proffered hand, surprised to find it sweaty and soft. "Rufe!"

Within the hour, the overseer had introduced both of the coopers to "Ferris" and explained the situation to them. They seemed reasonably happy to be leaving M'Kenna's Disappointment, obviously a plantation in trouble, for the flesh pots and other attractions of Georgetown as Michael Quinn luridly and eloquently described them. The red-headed entrepreneur told them that they would be making barrels and crates for muskets and bayonets and doing some wagon and machine maintenance. They agreed on pay and conditions, shook hands and went to pack up their tools and belongings since Ferris had come with a substantial wagon that could take them straight to their new home and, they were assured, to performance of some important work and to enjoyment of many frisky petticoats.

Elizabeth, after a glance at the smiling, red-headed Michael, sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap, her jaw clamped, her mind in turmoil and her stomach fluttering. Mr. Nevers explained that the farm would be needing fewer people and that Mister Ferris had offered to hire her for legitimate work at a fair price.

"But I like it here, sir. Who's goin' t'cook for you now an' do m'jobs? No one else knows the herbs."

"You've done well since Miranda died, no doubt of it, but Louise and Jenny can handle the kitchen, and we've a half dozen old layabouts who can tend the garden and your other duties. We can manage very well. The Cochran's have a simpler we've used before." Nevers looked and sounded exasperated at the young woman's stubborn position.

"Don' want t'go t'Georgetown, sir. I like the Quarters an' the people. Besides I got all them leaves an' sprigs that hain't finished dryin', hanging up down there an' out in the tobacco barn." Elizabeth avoided Michael's eyes and debated whether or not to say anything about his past. She shuddered, seeing the distorted body hanging from the mast, twisting in the breeze, swinging with the ship's motion. "Has ye tole the Conroy girls? Don't Mr. Conroy 'ave a say in this?"

"We need the money, Elizabeth," Nevers said firmly, ignoring her question. "If it's any of your business. Serving well and faithfully is your only duty here. You know that. I have the right to rent out any of our slaves or servants, and you know that as well. You nearly worked for the Cochrans, didn't you? We'll be selling off some of the people soon unless we can find a way to move the tobacco."

"Y'asked Mr. Conroy?" Elizabeth insisted, feeling a knot in her throat, a nameless fear, a growing anger spurred by the reminder of the Cochran embarrassment. She could hear herself breathing and the blood rushing in her ears.

"No, but I'll be sure to tell him what I have done since you are his bond servant. I'll see him at Christmastime, just after."

"C'd I talk to this foine young woman for a moment," Michael asked in his most friendly and musical tones, "alone, if y'please."

Nevers stood and picked up his hat. He nodded to Michael, glared at Elizabeth, went outside and stomped off toward the big house. The red-head put his hand on Elizabeth's arm, and she pulled it away as if she had been burned.

"What're y' doin' 'ere?" Elizabeth hissed at him, the roll and stench of the ship coming back to her mind. She thought of Matthew and wished for his strong arm, his hard eyes. She remembered how he had lifted the furious Andrew clear off the ground.

"Offerin' you a better job, away from all these darkies," Michael said with what he knew was a friendly and ingratiating smile, one he had perfected in Georgetown's gaming rooms and bordellos.

"You're a snake. Y'killed Matt's brother, 'elped to kill 'im anyways, didn' you?"

"Yes," Michael said, hanging his head in mock shame, "that's true. I followed those two, thought they was friends. I'm sorry now; truly I am, girl, and I'm wearing stripes on m'back to remind me."

"Where's the big, ugly one, Sean was it?" Elizabeth asked, her mouth dry, working on keeping her breathing slowed and her heart from pounding. She unconsciously knotted her apron back and forth in her hands.

"Dead, lung shot when we broke out of that little Annapolis jail. I crawled away through a cess field t'the tannery. Spent the night there, didn' I. C'n still smell it." Michael enjoyed watching the woman's chest rise and fall so rapidly. He could see the fear in her eyes.

"So now you're 'Mister Ferris' with a fine business in Georgetown, and it wouldn' melt in yer mouth, would it? You don' need me," Elizabeth said, turning her back to him and staring out the door, her arms folded across her pounding chest.

Michael knew that was true, but he also knew that this spare, young woman with the stubborn chin was the only person who could destroy his new life. He assumed that the government in Annapolis still had him on its "wanted" list as an escaped prisoner if not an Irish troublemaker. He recalled watching Elizabeth wash herself at the prow of the ship, and something else stirred in him, an almost forgotten bit of long-stored lust. He touched her arm and turned her toward him with a finger pointed at her heart, almost touching her breast. "If I can get your paper, I'll free you, right off, I swear," he said, raising his right hand and trying to look pious.

"No, Michael, y'er still a worthless turd, an' I wants nothin' t'do with you, nothin', not ever." Elizabeth spun away from him, her long hair flowing behind her, angering and arousing him.

"Don' think y'have a choice, woman. These Loyalist places is in deep trouble, debt up to their arse an' risin' fast. This man'd sell his poor ould mother for the right price. Only way he c'n keep his job an' pay the taxes. Now you close your sweet mouth and come along quiet like. I'd hate to have to cut yer skinny throat some dark night, now that I know where you are." Michael grinned and showed her the knife in his boot before he went to the door and called Mr. Nevers back into his own office.

Fear flowed through Elizabeth like an icy wind. She began to understand his interest in her, his almost-obvious need for her. He could come to the Quarters in the dark, kill her in her bed. Loathing mixed with dread sloshed in her heart like the Lune's filthy bilge.

"She understands, I think," Michael said.

"Do you, eh, Elizabeth?" Nevers asked.

She nodded and refused to look at the overseer. "Y'do what y'must, sir," she said, surprised how steady her voice was. "But I'd rather stay right 'ere where my child is buried, where I 'ave friends."

"Go pack your things. Don't forget your half of the indenture. This place will be easier to manage with no white servants," Nevers said to Michael as Elizabeth quickly left the room.

"You're right about that, I'm sure. You've made a good decision for her as well," Michael said, glancing after Elizabeth with a small and rather sickly smile as he opened his purse. "I'll be goin' to help the coopers. We c'n all be in Georgetown a'fore dark."

Elizabeth trotted toward her cabin, seeing Benjamin and his brother as they had been, brawny young men ready for anything, starting a great adventure. Oh Matt, where are you? You said you'd come, you promised, her mind cried, looking for the brave knight errant to ride to the rescue of the frightened damsel in distress. She felt helpless, defenseless, abandoned. In her cabin she buried her face in Benjamin's musty coat and sobbed.