The Virtues of Pennyroyal

By Keith Alan Brough

The Virtues of Pennyroyal is the tale of Bernard Mason, a con artist and amateur musician whose debts force him to quit London on a trade ship bound for the anonymous safety of colonial Massachusetts. He surfaces in the burgeoning village of Barnstable, where he quickly ingratiates himself with the devout but naive locals. Over time, Bernard becomes an influential member of the village, marrying into one of the founding families. His son Isaac is a musical prodigy whose abilities assure Bernard a seat in the highest echelons of London society. Bernard's return to London is endangered, however, by Isaac's personal demons, Isaac's righteous friend Daniel, the interfering daughters of Bernard's friend Thomas Hathorne, and the woods witch Goody Blatchford. After the largest blizzard in New England history blankets the region, Bernard leverages a tragic death into the boldest scheme of his life, all but assuring his triumphant return to London. All he needs is the cooperation of his son and a little luck. Unfortunately, Bernard's merciless schemes implode under the forces of ironic and supernatural justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9780996835121

Book preview

1932

Summer, 1698

Chapter One:

Moderately Mysterious

Bernard elbowed his way through the crowded London streets and peeked through the window of the Garraway Coffee House. He was a stout and attractive young gentleman of no more than five and twenty years. He removed his pocket watch which slowly ticked past nine-thirty. He wiped the watch face clean and placed it back in his pocket.

Nathaniel still had not arrived so Bernard paid the admission from his own purse.

A throng of traders, politicians, and military men milled throughout the main room, bartering their deals and drinking their coffee. Bernard retired to the cartographer’s room near the back, settled into a comfortable chair, and set his violin case on the floor beside him. He ordered coffee from a servant boy.

Milk and sugar, he said. He noticed a pair of lanky gentlemen at the back of the room looking down at a pile of papers. When the servant returned with his drink Bernard asked the young man what they were about.

They’ve a map of New England, the servant answered, But I know not their business. Bernard gave the boy a farthing for his time and he disappeared back into the kitchen.

Bernard took up a book from a side table and glanced at the title, A Key into the Language of America. He flipped aimlessly through the first few pages. Bernard was too distracted by Nathaniel’s absence to read. Nathaniel was never late for their weekly appointment. Perhaps he had finally received word about the Adventure Galley, which was already several weeks late.

Bernard set his violin case on his lap and opened it. Normally, he and Nathaniel played a few songs during their meetings. He took a moment to tune the instrument before setting it back in its case. Sometimes, the other patrons would request a tune, but Bernard never played without Nathaniel’s superior abilities to mask Bernard’s mistakes.

Five minutes later Nathaniel entered the coffee house. There you are, Bernard said. I thought you’d forgotten about me.

Nathaniel set a case beside his chair. I’ve been down at the wharf, of course. Wait, you mean you haven’t you heard? Captain Kidd has turned pirate.

What?

The king has already issued a warrant for his arrest. It would seem our investment in this pirate-hunter has suddenly gone bankrupt. I’ve spent the better part of the morning consoling the rest of our investors.

Bernard was not prepared for such devastating news. This can’t be…

Don’t let it worry you too much, Nathaniel sipped his coffee with calm indifference, There’ll be other business opportunities before long.

Bernard’s hands shook and coffee splashed onto his fingers. Every shilling, every pound, every guinea he’d borrowed had been invested in Kidd’s ship, the Adventure Galley. Dozens of loans secured from the patrons of the Garraway Coffee House had provided him with the capital necessary to join the endeavor. Some of his creditors might forgive his loans. Most would not. Bernard spun around in his seat and looked out the window. He almost expected to see Culpeper, the most infamous of his patrons, staring back at him.

I have to leave, Bernard said. He stood and glanced around the room, and begging Nathaniel’s pardon and excused himself marched through the cartography room with its silent harpsichord, the billiard room, and the library at the very back of the club.

He passed through the back door praying that Culpeper’s collectors weren’t already waiting in the alley beyond.

Nathaniel followed him into the alleyway.

Wait, the old man called out as covered his mouth with a handkerchief. Bernard stopped to rest against a wall halfway down the alley. Then he began pacing.

I don’t know where to go, Bernard said with his head in his hands.

Nathaniel came up beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. It can’t be so terrible. Such a loss couldn’t possibly trouble you for long.

I’ve nothing, Nathaniel. My whole future rested upon Kidd’s venture.

You can weather this storm.

Bernard shook his head again. 100 pounds of nothing but credit and advance doubled and tripled through sleight of hand and word of mouth. I’ve kept Culpeper and my creditors at bay these last six months on promises of compounded returns aided by nothing but an illusion of wealth. As soon as they learn that Kidd’s venture is sunk, they shall come looking to collect what I haven’t got.

But your lovely apartments and your clothes; would they not be sufficient to forgive the worst of this debt.

They’re indebted to several other people already. You, dear Nathaniel, are the only one in whom I’ve left to confide. And this pocket-watch you gave me is the only outright possession I have left in the world.

How much do you owe?

Nathaniel, I couldn’t possibly impose myself…

How much?

Bernard studied Nathaniel’s face. Could he really rescue him? Would he? A thousand pounds, Bernard whispered through his fingers.

What?

Bernard begged Nathaniel to keep quiet. Yes, a thousand pounds, Bernard whispered. Of course I’d return it with interest.

What, with more gaming and trickery? Nathaniel shot back. The old man quickly regained his composure. I am sorry but it’s just too much. Even in my finest days I couldn’t have raised half that much. Still, you should come with me. We’ll go to Culpeper and discover a solution together.

Time for that has long passed. They’ll send me to Newgate where. I’ll face the gallows for certain. Bernard glanced down the alley. It was still empty. He had better disappear soon.

Nathaniel reached into his pocket and held out his purse in a moment of charity Bernard had expected. I seldom carry more than a handful of crowns these days. If you would return to my chambers, I could give you more.

I can’t. Culpeper will look for me there after he’s tossed my rooms, Bernard said.

Where will you go?

I don’t know. Bernard snatched the purse and disappeared down the alley. He never saw Nathaniel again.

*            *            *

Bernard had wandered the London streets for three long days. He drifted past an opium den he frequented during the lean years before Nathaniel. A doper stumbled out into the street. He was an easy mark. Bernard hadn’t picked a pocket in ages. He wasn’t deft at it and he preferred the ease of robbing men on the Commodities Exchange. Still, his purse was getting dangerously light and he needed money. But before he could emerge from the alley, a pair of Culpeper’s men walked past.

Bernard disappeared deeper into the alley while avoiding all familiar places. Night turned into hazy English mornings. He survived for a while on day-old loaves of bread and scraps of salted fish. Each night he fought the other paupers and panhandlers for the cleaner doorways along Ratcliff Highway, the place where most of London’s whores peddled their wares. During better times he’d wandered the same area as a patron. He retired to a doorway outside a pewter-smith, crossed his arms across his purse, and fell asleep in London for the last time.

A kick to the side awoke him the next morning.

Away with you! the shopkeeper yelled. Bernard cradled his ribs and stumbled into the street. Everyone on Ratcliff ignored the altercation except a tall man across the way. Bernard recognized Culpeper’s tall hat and slumped shoulders. Bernard held his gaze for only a second before sprinting toward the nearest alley. Desperation lent speed to his legs, and he left the pursuing footfalls behind him as he disappeared into the cluttered London alleyways.

He had to leave. London was his home, but Bernard knew that, by method or by chance, Culpeper would find him eventually. So he headed to the wharf.

Captain Kidd’s piracy still dominated the gossip there. Bernard silenced his rage for the pirate as he hung his head low while walking along the pier. He gave several captains a wide berth since he knew they were acquainted with Culpeper. After a quick circuit, he learned of an old weathered ship preparing to cast off that very day. He stooped his shoulders and made his way over.

I’d like to speak with the captain, Bernard told one of the men loading the ship. The sailor ignored him as he set a barrel upon a muscled shoulder, walked up the gangway, and set it down on deck. The man moved easily despite a heavy limp and had moved three barrels before giving Bernard a proper glance.

I must speak with your captain, Bernard repeated.

I’m Captain Blatchford. The man spoke with a harsh voice. His long black hair was tied back in a knot but some stray strands whirled through the air as he set a large crate on his shoulder.

I’d like to join your crew.

Blatchford shook his head. Got all the crew I need.

If that’s true, then why are you out here outfitting your own ship?

I don’t pay people to carry out work I’m perfectly capable of doing myself. And I need not explain myself to some Fleet Street fop.

I’m no fop, Bernard said.

Blatchford chuckled even as he lifted another crate from the pier. The pile was quickly disappearing onto the ship. What experience have you then? Tell me which captains have you sailed under?

Bernard tried to think of a name but couldn’t conjure a lie fast enough and the burly man turned his back again.

I’m a hard worker and a fast learner, Bernard said.

What’s your name?

Fortunately Bernard had prepared an alias. Abraham.

You don’t look like a Jew. Well, Abraham, Blatchford said with measured contempt, There be plenty other captains down the way. Go pester one of them. I got no use for you. Now I’ve told you twice and I ain’t gonna repeat it a third time.

I’ll pay you for transport then.

This piqued the captain’s interest. How much have you got?

Two crowns, Bernard said, offering all he had left in Nathaniel’s purse. He expected the captain to dismiss the offer out of hand, but hadn’t anticipated such mocking laughter.

You be about twenty shy.

Indentured then, I’ll travel indentured.

Blatchford shook his head. I don’t peddle human flesh anymore. Too much trouble. Sugar and iron filings, that my business now. But the captain’s demeanor didn’t match his words, and Bernard thought he might still be persuaded.

Indentured and my two crowns, Bernard offered. The captain completed two more trips up the gangway without a word. The pile of crates and barrels on the pier had nearly disappeared.

Indentured and you labor alongside the crew, Blatchford finally said. I’m certain they would appreciate a respite now and again.

Bernard agreed.

The captain finished loading the stock and returned to the dock, standing above Bernard with a stern eye. "Take your two crowns down to the Needle and Eye. Ask for Jacob. Tell him you’ve signed indentured with Captain Robert Blatchford aboard the brigantine, Tower Hill."

Bernard knew the shop. He’d passed it several times in recent years but had never been inside. He couldn’t understand why he needed a tailor and opened his mouth to ask why he need go there, but the captain held up his hand for silence.

You’ve three hours before my black powder delivery. We cast off immediately following so I’d suggest you save your breath and get moving.

Three hours?

Three hours.

Bernard took the man’s advice and headed inland towards the shop. He kept to the alleyways whenever possible and, after a short walk he approached a faded wooden sign depicting a long sewing needle weaving through a cat’s eye. A long red thread followed behind weaving a border of numbers and symbols, most of which Bernard did not recognize. He opened the shop door, and a bell signaled his entrance. The windows were shuttered and the room dark except for a pair of tallow candles on a countertop breathing black smoke into the darkness.

Hello, he called out. On the walk over, Bernard guessed Blatchford had sent him to get a proper seagoing outfit; but he didn’t see anything inside the room to suggest that he’d reached a tailor at all.

Who are you? a voice asked. A man with long black hair stepped through a pair of curtains from the back room. Oh my goodness. Bernard, is that you?

Bernard took a second look at the shopkeeper and recognized Jacob, an old friend from his days in the orphanage. They’d been close enough to share Sister Martha’s strap countless times when she caught them stealing from the larder. Bernard would keep watch while Jacob hunted through the peppermint and brown sugar. They succeeded more often than they failed. But one rainy spring morning, Sister Martha caught Jacob’s hand in the candy jar for the last time and turned him out on the street. Bernard followed two weeks later and they both disappeared into the obscurity of London’s streets.

Is this your shop? Bernard asked.

Unfortunately no. I keep this shop for Mr. McGuire.

Bernard bristled at the name. McGuire was another of his creditors.

What are you doing here? Jacob finally asked.

I’ve just signed indentured with Captain Blatchford.

Why?

I must leave London immediately and his is the only vessel shipping off today.

Trouble then. Anything I might help with?

Not unless you can lend me a thousand pounds.

So you’re the man Culpeper is looking for?

Bernard nodded. You heard about that?

I’ve heard enough. And you’re right; you do need to get out of London.

Jacob led him into the back room. It was muddled with an assortment of cabinets, shelves, and boxes. Jacob cleared the clutter off a large table and offered Bernard a seat.

Remove your left boot and pull up your leggings, Jacob told him.

What kind of tailor are you anyway?

Tailor? I’m no tailor. You’ve come here to be marked.

Marked?

Yes. I assumed you understood. Blatchford always marks his slaves. Although I was lead to believe that he’d given up the trade.

Do you mean a tattoo? Bernard asked.

Of course.

Bernard looked down at the table again and noticed a large-mouthed inkwell, an assortment of sewing needles, and a pile of rags stained black and red from ink and blood. I’m no criminal.

Blatchford won’t take you unless you’re marked. It seems indentured men make a habit of disappearing after they make landfall in America. A tattoo helps Blatchford prove his ownership once he finds them. And he always finds them.

I can’t sign my flesh to another man. It’s all I’ve got left. Surely something can be done.

Not unless you can convince Blatchford that you don’t want to escape. And from the look in your eyes, there’s little chance of that. You’ll have to be marked. Still… Jacob stood up and walked around the room. He reached up and took a small vial of ink down off a shelf. We could try this.

What’s that?

Henna. A supplier from the East brought it to me from the Arabs a few months ago. I’ve never had occasion to use it. It’s supposed to wash away after a few months.

Excellent, Bernard replied while rolling up his pants.

It’s not cheap, Jacob warned.

How much?

Five pounds. And that’s a friendly price.

I’ve only two crowns, Bernard pleaded.

I’d like to help an old friend, but that won’t even cover my costs. Why, this little vial might be the only one of its kind in all of London.

I’ve nothing left, I tell you. Bernard emptied his pockets. He stopped when his hand circled around his watch. Jacob, however, noticed the sound of the metal chain jingling in his pocket.

What’s that?

Nothing, Bernard lied. It’s just a bauble.

Jacob’s interests wouldn’t be quelled and Bernard reluctantly removed the watch from his pocket. Jacob stared at it in wonder.

That’ll cover your ink and more.

This is the only thing I’ve left in the world.

Unless you’ve a second watch hiding in your pockets I’d say it’s your only course.

Bernard begged again for pity, but Jacob would not be dissuaded. Precious moments ticked away until Jacob finally offered a possible solution.

That watch will never make it across the Atlantic once Blatchford’s crew discovers such a prize. You might as well give it here if for no other reason but to keep it safe.

It’s far more valuable than your vial of ink, no matter how rare you insist it is.

I’d be willing to compensate you the difference.

No, Bernard said. Keep it in your possession. Consider it collateral on a loan to be paid twofold for the labor done here today.

You’re offering ten pounds, Jacob confirmed.

Yes. Just give me a year. If I don’t send payment the watch will be yours. They shook on the deal and Bernard reluctantly gave over his timepiece.

Jacob spent the next two hours inking a simple stone parapet atop a dark mound of earth; the sign of the Tower Hill. The dye Jacob used to color the naturally red henna turned the skin red and irritated.

That’s a fortunate secondary effect, Jacob said, It’ll give the illusion of a real tattoo. He prodded Bernard’s left calf with a needle and smeared the fresh blood along the edges. Be sure to keep it dry. It should pass muster with Blatchford for a time but I’ve heard that salt water will cause it to fade faster

Bernard thanked his old friend when Jacob finally finished his work. Remember our agreement. I’ll send payment as soon as I get settled, he said as he left the shop with Nathaniel’s last two crowns still in his pocket.

Be careful, Bernard. If Blatchford catches you trying to escape, and it’s likely he already suspects, he’ll hobble you for sure. And don’t give him any reason to examine my handiwork too closely. If he discovers my complicity he’ll kill me too.

It’s probably best you forget you ever knew me, Bernard said.

It would be wise for you to do the same. Good luck.

Bernard left the shop and rushed back to the harbor. When he arrived at the Tower Hill, the crew was already scurrying about in the rigging and unfurling the topsails. Bernard caught a quick glimpse of a young woman speaking with the Captain. She seemed vaguely familiar but disappeared below deck before Bernard could manage a better look.

I’m here, Bernard called up.

Do you have you the mark? Blatchford asked.

Bernard rolled up his legging and flashed the tattoo. Blatchford let down a rope and hauled him up. When Bernard set foot on deck, Blatchford kneeled down for a proper inspection. He ran a calloused thumb over the tattoo and Bernard winced in pain.

Very well. Get yourself below deck. I can’t have you underfoot while we cast off.

Bernard allowed himself one final glance at London. Culpeper was out there somewhere looking for him. Bernard waited below deck for what seemed an eternity until the Tower Hill finally lurched free of the pier and began its long trek down the River Thames.

Chapter Two:

Heavily without Fire

After two weeks upon the Tower Hill, Bernard desperately missed the putrid streets of London. The food was awful, water was scarce, and his ration of small-beer was kept to two cups a day; one for lunch and another for his paltry dinner. He had brought his complaints to Blatchford the first day at sea but the captain had little sympathy.

You don’t wanna eat? You don’t gotta eat, Blatchford said as he snatched a piece of meat and tossed it to the boatswain named Dobson sitting nearby. Dobson tore into the rotting meat and swallowed it with a smile. Bernard kept his concerns to himself after that and decided it was better to keep what he had than have nothing instead.

His cup, a battered metal mug he found abandoned in one of the ship’s dark corners, had a pin-sized hole in the side which went unnoticed until he saw the ring of moisture form on his leg the first time he used it. It was merely an annoyance since such little liquid leaked out, but Bernard tried repairing it with anything he could find. He took sap from a sideboard on the quarterdeck which was still yellow with life, drops of wax from an unattended candle, and a dollop of tar he found in the crew’s quarters. But the sap wouldn’t keep a seal, the wax easily chipped away, and the tar polluted his tea so completely he regretted trying the experiment at all. After a while, he accepted the minor annoyance of a leaking cup and began drinking everything down before the subtle drip could annoy him.

Bernard completed his tasks as quickly as possible, but his fingers blistered easily and he often needed Dobson’s help finishing his work. Bernard holystoned the decks, patched leaking boards with oakum, and emptied ship’s jakes buckets every single day. The Boatswain didn’t appreciate the added work and openly berated Bernard to anyone who would listen. After a month, Bernard could complete his responsibilities without assistance. Yet Dobson continued to keep a close eye.

One day Bernard happened upon a battered violin in one of the holds. The instrument was short a string and the bow was missing half its horsehair, but it played well enough and Bernard was able to charm the crew with his simple music for a night or two. No one ever offered payment for his performances, but Bernard did learn where to find the best brothels in Boston. He also learned that Captain Blatchford operated a small smuggling operation in a village named Barnstable. The ship would weigh anchor there for an evening to offload their contraband.

Then we’ll head to Boston; and the slavers, Dobson said while staring at Bernard.

The small crowd had a good laugh at Bernard’s expense.

He did his best to feign a good nature.

It’s not as bad as they say, another man said. At least you’re not one of them Africans; you get your freedom after seven years.

Bernard started up a popular tune. His audience quickly doubled from ten to twenty. After a few minutes, even Captain Blatchford joined the audience, and he brought his wife as well.

Robert’s huge arm was wrapped securely around a young woman’s shoulder. Bernard hadn’t seen her since the day the Tower Hill left London. He’d heard bits of gossip about her from the crew. Her name was Anne, she was at least twenty years the captain’s junior, and an apothecary of some talent who was known to treat ill crewmembers from time to time. Some whispered she was even a witch, but no one whispered too loudly. The captain would certainly throttle anyone who did.

Bernard recognized her almost immediately. It had been no more than three years since he’d chosen her from the shadows of Ratcliff Highway, but she had accumulated more than just three years to her countenance. Bernard had bedded her only the one time. He had been encouraged by some of his society friends to sample some of the younger wares that walked the Highway. She had not even a wisp of hair betwixt her legs and fumbled awkwardly when Bernard climbed atop her. He searched the Ratcliff doorways for weeks following their encounter but never stumbled upon her again. It would seem she had raised herself off her knees and into Captain Robert Blatchford’s ignorant arms.

The captain and his wife disappeared soon after the song ended. But Bernard had discovered Anne Blatchford’s true identity. And what a valuable identity it was.

The next day Bernard developed a case of the gout and went down to the captain’s quarters seeking the young woman’s counsel.

Captain Blatchford was drunk. What do you want? he bellowed.

I have the gout, Bernard said. It’s been ailing me for some three days now. I was hoping for treatment.

You came to see my wife, then. Is that right?

Bernard nodded.

You have money?

A little, Bernard said.

Come along then. Anne, get over here. One of the crew has the gout.

A moment later, Bernard’s former doxy stepped from behind a screen. She carried a large wooden box that rattled with several glass vials. By the concern in her eyes, Anne recognized Bernard as well.

Do you often suffer from the gout? she said as she set the box down.

From time to time, Bernard said. His eyes wandered down her body and recalled the fine bosom she had under her shirts. Bernard quickly averted his gaze since it was