(_Maryland, 1684_)
I
"I'm riding south to St. Mary's to-morrow, Michael," said George Talbot.
He gave his horse a slap on the flank that sent it toward the stable.
"Want to come with me, and see something of the Bay?"
"Yes indeed," said Michael Rowan. "You know, Mr. George, I always like
to ride with you."
Talbot smiled at the red-cheeked boy, whose black hair and blue eyes
gave proof of his Irish blood. "You're loyal to the chief of the clan,
aren't you, Michael? Well, if I were warden of the Scottish marches I
wouldn't ask for better followers than such as you."
Michael flushed. "My father has taught me always to do your bidding, Mr.
George. It seems to me the right thing to do."
"I hope it always will. There's some who don't think as well of me as
your father does." Talbot slapped his riding-whip against his boot. "But
we don't care what they think, do we? A fig for all critics, I say! Each
man to his own salvation!" He went up the steps to his house, while
Michael watched him with frank admiration.
George Talbot, Irish by birth, was a prominent man in the province that
belonged to Lord Baltimore. He was a kinsman of Sir William Talbot, who
was Chief Secretary of Maryland. George had obtained a large grant of
land on the Susquehanna River, when Lord Baltimore was anxious to have
the northern part of his province settled. Three years after he staked
out his plantation on the Susquehanna he was made surveyor-general of
the province. That was in 1683. The next year Lord Baltimore went to
England, leaving his son, a boy, as nominal governor. A commission of
leading men was chosen to take charge of the actual work of the
governorship, and George Talbot was at the head of the commission. In
much of that sparsely-settled country he ruled like the chieftain of a
Scottish clan. He built a fort near the head of Chesapeake Bay;
garrisoned it with Irish followers, and sometimes set out from it with
his troop to check Indian raids; sometimes rode into the land that was
in dispute between Lord Baltimore and William Penn, and lectured or
bullied or drove away some of Penn's settlers. He ruled with a high
hand, both at his fort and on his plantation, with the usual result that
he was tremendously admired by his retainers, among whom was Fergus
Rowan, the father of Talbot's young squire Michael.
Next day the adventurous Talbot and the faithful Michael set out south.
They rode through a country almost as untouched by men as it was before
the first white explorers landed on its coast. Then there had been
Indians to hunt game in its woods and marshes; to fish its streams and
bay, to plant their crops in its open arable fields. But the Indians
were like the birds and beasts, essentially migratory; they built few
permanent homes, they wasted little labor on bridges or mills, clearings
or farm-stockades. When the hunting or the crops grew poor in one place
they packed their tents on their ponies or in their canoes and set out
for a new, untouched country. The white men were very different; they
wanted to own, to fence off, to build, to make travel and commerce
easier. But in 1684 there were so few of them that one might ride all
day and see no sign of a human habitation. Talbot and Michael had to
hunt the streams for fording-places, had to push through underbrush that
threatened to hide the trails, and to rely on the provisions they
carried in their saddle-bags to furnish them food and drink.
Every now and then the riders caught sight of the blue waters of
Chesapeake Bay to the east. Whenever they reached a farmhouse in the
wilderness they stopped and chatted with the settlers, giving them any
news from the north. They spent one night at a hunter's log cabin;
another at a miller's house built on the bank of a river. Many times
they had to go far out of the route as the crow flies in order to cross
wide estuaries and streams. But they were in no particular haste, and
rested their horses often. It took them the better part of a week to
reach the Patuxent River and cross into St. Mary's County.
Many small fishing-hamlets were to be found along this southern shore of
Chesapeake Bay, and Talbot stopped at each one, announced who he was,
and questioned the fishermen for news. The chief complaint of the
settlers was against the tyrannical manners and methods of the
revenue-collectors, or excisemen, who levied taxes for the king of
England on all goods coming into the province or going out of it. Men
who collect such taxes have almost always been unpopular; in Maryland
they were pretty generally hated. To judge from what Talbot was told by
the fishermen some of the collectors had acted as if they were Lord
Baltimore himself. They took horses, servants, boats, as they pleased,
and dared the owners to complain of them to the king. The most unpopular
of the race of collectors appeared to be Christopher Rousby, who lived
at the town of St. Mary's, and made trips up and down St. Mary's River
and along the shores of the bay to collect taxes from unwilling settlers
and threaten them with dire punishments if they dared refuse obedience
to his orders.
"The knave ought to be whipped!" Talbot declared to Michael, as they
left one of the hamlets. "I know him, an arrogant, conceited fool! It's
fortunate I'm not one of these folk here, or I might run him through
some dark night."
Down to St. Mary's they rode, where Talbot took lodgings for himself and
Michael. The lodgings were at a tavern known as "The Bell and Anchor,"
where a great anchor lay on the lawn before the tavern door and a bell
hung over the porch, used by the wife of the tavern-keeper to inform her
guests when their meals were ready for them. The inn faced St. Mary's
River, which was wide here, and the beach in front of it was a
gathering-place for sailors and fishermen and longshoremen, whose boats
were pulled up on the sand or anchored in the small harbor to the south
of the town. Talbot and Michael went among the men, the chieftain
hobnobbing with the simple folk, as he was fond of doing, though he
never allowed them to forget his dignity.
There were ships lying in St. Mary's River, one of them a ketch
belonging to His Majesty's navy. Men on the beach told Talbot and
Michael that the captain of the ketch was very friendly with Christopher
Rousby, the tax-collector, and the other excisemen. They also told
Talbot that neither the captain of the ketch nor Rousby nor his mates
paid any attention to Lord Baltimore's officers in St. Mary's. The
former treated the latter as if they were stable-boys, made to be
ordered about, the longshoremen told Talbot.
At first Talbot only listened and swore under his breath. Then he began
to swear openly, and to look angry and shake his fist at the royal ship
out in the bay. "These dogs of sea-captains and tax-collectors think
they own the whole province!" he muttered to Michael. "I'd like nothing
better than to teach them a lesson!"
The man and boy happened to be standing near the door of "The Bell and
Anchor" when a long-boat landed passengers from the ketch, and the
captain and Christopher Rousby and two other men came up to the tavern
door. All four men glanced at Talbot, whose bearing and dress made him a
conspicuous figure. He gave them a curt nod. The captain and one of the
other men acknowledged his greeting, but Rousby strode past him with a
shrug of the shoulders and a sneer on his lips.
George Talbot was not used to such treatment; when he gave a man a nod
he expected at least a bow in return. Hot blood flushed his cheeks, and
his fingers gripped the hilt of the hunting-knife he wore at his belt.
Michael could not hear what he murmured, but he could guess at what he
meant. Michael grew angry too; he expected people to treat his master
with as much deference as they would show the king.
The four men went into the tavern, and soon Michael caught the sound of
a drinking song. To get away from the noise Talbot and his page walked
up the street. Presently they met the chief magistrate of St. Mary's,
who recognized George Talbot, and greeted him, as was proper, by taking
off his hat and making a low bow.
"Things go badly here, Mr. Talbot," said the magistrate, with a shake of
his head. "The captain of that ship yonder and the collectors laugh at
Lord Baltimore. They do what they will with me and my men. They sit in
the tavern all night, carousing, and then they take any boats they see
or anything they like, and threaten the owners with their pistols and
His Majesty's vengeance if they dare object. I've gone to see them about
it. They snap their fingers at me and the governor."
"I've seen the brutes," said Talbot. "I think I'd best take it on myself
to explain the matter to them."
"Be careful," warned the other. "They think themselves above all the law
of the province."
"By Heaven, they're not above me!" ejaculated Talbot. "I'll tell Rousby
so to his face, and let him take the consequences!"
Talbot and Michael went back to "The Bell and Anchor." The singing was
still going on. The man and boy went into the tap-room, and ordered two
cups of ale. They sat at a small table in a corner, some distance from
where the four men were drinking, laughing, and singing. This was no
time for Talbot to speak to them; their wits were too befuddled to pay
any heed to what he might have to say.
Presently the man and boy went up to their rooms. The noise of the
revelers reached their ears. Talbot was very angry. He told Michael
that he should have a settlement with Christopher Rousby the next day.
So loud was the noise down-stairs that Michael had to pull the
bedclothes up about his head in order to get to sleep.
The next day was cold and dark--early winter. Talbot spent the morning
going from house to house, questioning each owner as to unjust taxes
that Rousby had collected, or any other injury the collector had done.
He made a note of each complaint, and by noon he had a long list.
The two dined at the tavern, and afterward Talbot engaged a fisherman to
row them out to the royal ketch in the river. Rain was falling now, and
a wind had sprung up. Whitecaps dotted the water. The fisherman rowed
them to the ship, and Talbot and Michael climbed up the rope-ladder that
hung down over the side. A sailor stepped up to them. "What do you
want?" he asked.
"I want to see the captain and Christopher Rousby," said Talbot. "I'm
told that Rousby came out to the ship this morning."
"Aye, Mr. Rousby's still here," said the sailor.
"I am George Talbot," announced the other man, and, as if that were
sufficient warrant for him to do as he chose, he walked across the deck
and went down the companionway to the cabin. Michael kept close behind
him.
A bottle and glasses stood on the cabin table. The captain, Christopher
Rousby, and an officer of the ship sprawled in chairs. Rousby's face
was red and bloated. At sight of George Talbot he smiled, but made no
motion to get up from his chair.
Talbot didn't take off his hat or cloak, though both were wet with rain
and spray. He stepped to the table and leaned on it with one hand, while
he pointed his other gloved hand at the insolent-looking tax-collector.
"You know who I am," said Talbot, in his deep, positive voice, "and I
know who you are. I am chief of the deputy governors Lord Baltimore has
appointed to care for his province during his absence; and you are a
tax-collector."
"A representative of His Majesty the King of England," said the captain
of the ship, as if to make out that his friend Rousby was a more
important man.
"Let the fellow talk," said Rousby to the captain. "I've heard he was
clever at making speeches."
His tone and manner were the height of insult. Talbot's face flushed,
and Michael saw that his hand on the table doubled itself into a fist.
"Yes, I will talk," said Talbot, in a voice that could have been heard
on deck. "And you will listen to me, whether you want to or no! I have a
list of unjust taxes you've levied here in St. Mary's. The Devil only
knows how many you've levied elsewhere." He put his hand into his pocket
and pulled out the list he had made.
"I'll not listen to such speech on my own ship," said the captain, his
hands on the arms of his chair as if he was about to stand up.
"Indeed you will!" roared Talbot. "This list is a list of crimes
committed by your friend Christopher Rousby, representative of His
Majesty the King of England in the province of Maryland." He opened the
list and began to read the items, giving the names of the men in St.
Mary's who had been unjustly taxed and the amount they had been forced
to pay to the greedy collector.
The three men at the table grew restless; Rousby picked up his glass and
drained it, the captain drummed on the arm of his chair with his
fingers, the third man stared at the cabin-ceiling.
Talbot went on with his reading until he had finished the first page and
turned to the second. Then Rousby broke in. "You can read all night,"
said he, "but I tell you now that all those taxes stand, and I'll
collect more in future as pleases me."
"Even if you know they're illegal and unjust?" asked Talbot.
"Look you here," said Rousby, leaning forward. "The fact that I collect
them makes them both legal and just. I am the law hereabouts, and I do
as I please. If you don't like it, ride back to your own plantation, and
leave matters here to your betters." His small bloodshot eyes sneered at
Talbot.
Now Talbot's Irish blood was very quick and fiery. That word "betters"
stung him, the look on Rousby's face infuriated him. "I don't admit any
betters," said he. "In fact I only see inferiors before me." His voice
was cold as steel, and as biting. Michael had never heard him speak like
that before.
Rousby and the captain started to their feet.
"Keep out of this, you!" Talbot roared at the captain, and leaning
across the table gave him such a push that he set him down in his chair.
Then Talbot's gloved hand struck Rousby on the cheek. "Take that!" he
cried. "If you want to settle the matter now, I'm ready!"
Rousby bellowed with rage. He gave the table a shove that sent it
flying, and his fist shot out at Talbot. Talbot caught it and whirled
the man around. Then Rousby grabbed the dagger he wore at his side and
rushed at Talbot with it. Talbot stepped to one side, and the same
instant drew his own knife. Rousby swung round at him again, dagger
uplifted; but Talbot was the quicker. He struck with his knife, in the
breast, pressed Rousby back and back until he leaned on the table.
It had all happened in the twinkling of an eye. Now the captain and the
third man sprang forward. Each caught one of Talbot's arms and held it
They were too late to save the collector, however. Talbot had stabbed
him in the heart, and Christopher Rousby was dead.
The captain seized a pistol from a rack and leveled it at Talbot. "Drop
your knife!" he ordered, "and surrender to His Majesty's officers! This
is bad business for you! Murder of a royal agent!"
Talbot dropped the knife. "At your orders," he said. "I yield as your
prisoner."
[Illustration: "I YIELD AS YOUR PRISONER"]
The other man caught up a rope and soon had the prisoner's hands bound
behind him.
"Take him up on deck," said the captain. "And send two of the sailors
down here to me."
The other officer marched Talbot up the companionway. Michael followed.
On deck the officer stepped away from his prisoner long enough to speak
to one of the sailors. While he was doing this Talbot whispered to
Michael. "Get ashore," he whispered, "and tell the magistrate at St.
Mary's what has happened. Then get word if you can to Sir William Talbot
and to my wife."
It was dark on deck, a murky evening. Michael slipped over to the side
of the ship, found the rope-ladder, and crawled down it to where the
fisherman was still waiting in his boat. He didn't like to leave his
master in the hands of his enemies, but he knew that Talbot wanted to be
obeyed.
"Mr. Talbot is going to stay on board," Michael said to the boatman.
"You're to row me to shore."
A little later he landed at St. Mary's. He was soaking wet and very
cold, but he gave no thought to that.