Jimmy Fox - Nick Herald 02 - Lineages and Lies (16 page)

Some sleuth he was. Detective Bartly would never fix another ticket for him.

Then he wheeled the film reel to a list of the convicts’ names … and that old zing of discovery up the back of his neck and across his shoulder blades hit him full force.

The names … it was downright spooky! The names of those aboard the
True Faith
were remarkably like those who stepped onto the dock in New Orleans from the
Allégorie
, later that same year.

There was almost a one-for-one correspondence of names that even a non-expert in the field could see. Twelve of the English crew, however, including the captain, did not appear to have made the leap of nationalities, time, and distance.

Nick abstracted some of the information by hand, but got tired of that, and loaded film after film on the copying reader. He wanted everything he’d read during the day on paper, verbatim, to back up his story, to prove to Hawty that he wasn’t hallucinating.

Most genealogical research facilities have copiers that eat cash by the handful. Here at the Plutarch, he had a plastic card with unlimited credit. As he enjoyed this rare luxury of free copies, Nick grinned like a kid who’s found ten dollars on the sidewalk. Genealogy, for those who don’t know where the freebies are, can be an expensive pursuit, one quarter at a time.

Now with the palpable sheets of paper in front of him, he could compare the passenger list of the
True Faith
with the list of the
Allégorie
. He had a copy in his ragged leather briefcase, which his parents had given him on the great day he collected his PhD in English. The briefcase had taken nearly as much abuse as his degree had.

On the English ship, there was a pardoned petty thief named John Knowlington; on the
Allégorie
, a man named Jacques Nowelle first saw the port of New Orleans that famous fall day in 1731. The chief mate on the
True Faith
was Peter Windner; on the French ship there was a man named Pierre D’Hiver. There was a man named edward Juslin, boatswain, who might have become Édouard Joscalun or Joscelyn—the spelling wasn’t clear
on the microfilm. And the ship’s doctor left Bristol as William Montooth, but seemed to have become Guilliame Montenay during the trip.

Nick paged in his lavishly produced Society history—$45, he’d paid!—to the list of past Captain-Directors
. Well, what do you know
: these four surnames—Joscelyn, D’Hiver, Montenay, and Nowell—appeared many times as Captain-Directors. Many other past Captain-Directors shared surnames with other First Families of the Society and likewise called to Nick’s mind English surnames aboard the
True Faith
; some Captain-Directors’ names were new to Nick, no doubt descendants whose
Allégorie
-cal surnames had been lost through marriage. But these four stood out for their frequency of service.

Nick was certain he’d found something important here: it was as if Poseidon had waved his trident over the doomed
True Faith
, and with a few exceptions, had transformed English felons and sailors to French persons of quality—who later show up on a ship named the
Allégorie
in colonial New Orleans.

If the
True Faith
was to have arrived in Maryland in July, it was well within belief that it could have made it to New Orleans by October, when the
Allégorie
landed. Why the change of the ship’s name? And why did the junior minister in court insist that the ship had been lost, if indeed it had sailed on to New Orleans? Did the British government have knowledge of this?

As usual, the more you know in genealogy, the more you want to know. Keats would understand the yearning.

Where was the connection, the demonstrable proof, beyond the surface evidence of these names, for an identification of
the two ships? What happened between the time the
True Faith
disappeared in the Atlantic, and the time the
Allégorie
appeared in New Orleans? Was this strange transformation what Bluemantle had meant, when he all but damned Nowell and the Society? Had he already sniffed out something rotten in the past of the Society, begun to chafe under the burden of secrecy and complicity, biting the hand that fed him? The heckler Therman must have stumbled onto something, too. And it all somehow related to the scribbled words of a depressed old man in a nursing home.

“‘All is not Bristol fashion, shipshape,’” Nick mumbled to the papers in front of him.

If he could figure this thing out, it would be his ticket to fame and fortune! He would be lionized as the conscience of his profession, a Galileo, a Darwin, an investigative hero. A Bluemantle, perhaps. The boozy old fellow would probably have been the first to slap Nick on the back.

Rewinding a last reel of microfilm, he watched the centuries roll by in a white blur. He thought of an anchor chain. Was he hauling up a chain of evidence, a chain of lies—or a chain of death?

“Did you find what you were looking for, Nick?” Mrs. Fadge asked, looking up at him. She was one of the devoted elderly volunteer staffers, almost a fixture around the Plutarch. He thought maybe she’d shrunk another few inches under the attack of osteoporosis; despite the depredations of age on her
body, her mind was vibrantly alive, and her blue eyes still were bright and huge in perpetual astonishment behind the thick lenses of her glasses.

“As always. Thanks. I put the reels on the cart there.”

“Yes, we have been having a lot of rain, haven’t we?” There was no point in talking to her; almost completely deaf. “Come, have some coffee and cake. I want to show you the new goodies you suggested we order.”

He couldn’t refuse; he’d skipped lunch and her last three invitations. She grabbed his hand and dragged him along through gracious rooms stuffed with books and antiques. Scholars have dreams of an idyllic research library like the Plutarch. Most wish to spend the afterlife in such a place. Bluemantle, of course, would have required the addition of a bevy of Playboy Bunnies and an endless supply of good booze.

“You bought them
all
?” Nick said, amazed. He walked along the shelves of new acquisitions. Mrs. Fadge had caught the shock on his face, and she happily confirmed his question with a contented nod as she served him coffee, sandwiches, pastries, and fresh fruit. Nick had provided a hierarchy of desirability for recently released genealogical works—his own, not by accident, included in the most desirable category. But the Plutarch had acted with typical extravagance. He figured the new batch of books and maps had cost about six thousand dollars.

“We haven’t had a chance to get them into the main collection. We’re a little behind in our work. Some of our volunteers have died. Oh, I can see by your face you’re worried about Angus. No, no, not dear Angus. He’s here somewhere.”

And he found Nick later, on the way out.

“Question, Nick.” Angus dropped what looked like years of stymied research on a large, exquisite Robert Adam table with neoclassical fluting and carving. “I’m not holding you up, am I?”

“Absolutely not, Angus. Always a pleasure to help a fellow explorer of ancestral catacombs. Like the Masonic brotherhood, I guess. We’re members of a time-honored fraternity. Did Hawty call you?”

“Yessiree, she sure did. She’s one sharp cookie. Be sure and tell her to come on over here whenever she pleases. Or maybe I told her that already,” he said, trying to remember. Angus had a solid gold disposition, that not even the loss of a leg in the Pacific battle for New Georgia during World War II could tarnish; but his memory was another story. “You mentioned Masons. Are you … one of us?”

“Nah,” said Nick. “Just running my mouth, as usual. But now that we’re on the subject, Masonic records can be an important source. Maybe some of your male ancestors belonged to the brotherhood; Freemasonry was especially important in the intellectual background of early America. As a Mason, you may have more access than I would. Check it out.”

Angus obediently wrote down every idea Nick threw at him.

For Nick, Angus represented the best aspects of those who take up genealogy: a boundless curiosity, a student’s humility, a boxer’s resolve and resilience, and a blissful ignorance of the difficulties of scaling Himalayas of often unrewarding documentary material. Over the years Angus had spent a small fortune on postage, fees, and scattershot records searches.

He peppered Nick with dozens of questions. Nick attempted to steer him to the proper resources, without spoiling the joy of discovery for him.

A bit over half an hour later, Angus seemed to be running out of steam, but not of things to ask. Nick always found it hard to fathom why Angus, considering the vast amount of advice he’d received, never could get any further along on his various family lines.

“Hey, Angus, if you ever want to throw in the towel and let a professional take over, I’ll cut you a brother-in-law deal.”

“Heck, no! It’s not the findin’ that’s so much fun, it’s the huntin’. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot.” He gave Nick a handbill. “Got a special program tomorrow night. That fella’s gonna give a presentation. Supposed to be an expert.”

“Well, we know about experts, don’t we, Angus?”

“You right, there, boy!” He laughed heartily. “Lots of four-dollar words they want a sawbuck for. You come on back tomorrow night, you hear. We’ll feed you real good and then set you loose so you can chase some Saturday-night gals.”

“Maybe I’ll drop by. Happy hunting, Angus.”

Walking to his car, Nick could still hear Angus’s belly laugh ringing in his ears. He was indeed going to return the next evening, and not only for the prospect of good food and interesting women. The scheduled guest speaker was Preston Nowell.

CHAPTER 13

S
aturday, just before 3 p.m., inside LifePath Estates, this conversation was occurring between a lanky light-brown young man and a pregnant white nurse.

“Look here, girl,” said the young orderly, as much to the clock on the wall as to the nurse, “I got to get on outta here! My woman’s waitin’ for me. And she don’t like to be waitin’. We goin’ to a jammin’ party. I got to wash my car, get dressed, go to the cash machine, go to the liquor store—”

“Jamal,” Toni the nurse said, a supervisory warning in her voice. “Jamal, the clock says you still have ten minutes on your shift. You want me to make a complaint to the head nurse?”

“Oh, all
right!
Give it here.”

Jamal was normally hyperactive. Just now, he couldn’t stand still even for a moment. Quitting-time anticipation; he’d been on since six that morning. He decided it was best at least to be moving. Arguing was pointless. If he moved fast enough, they wouldn’t be able to hang another task on him.

What could he do? He was outranked. She was a nurse, he was a nobody, and he wanted to keep this job. Sometimes,
he half-expected these white folks—and they were always the ones in charge, it seemed to him—to end their commands with “boy,” as in the bad old days his parents used to tell him about. At least this one was kind of pretty.

But not nearly as pretty as his own ebony goddess, who was waiting for him while he was playing Stepin Fetchit.

Oh, maaaaaaaan! he lamented to himself, going over all the things he had to do in the hope of bringing his night to a successful conclusion.

Toni had Mr. Montenay’s package on the counter of the nurses’ station, along with personal mail for other residents that needed to be distributed. Jamal grabbed the package, praying that Toni wouldn’t stick him with the other mail.

“Now, I believe he’s sitting out on—”

“I know where the old fool be,” Jamal interrupted. “He done had his pills yet? I don’t want to mess with him if he ain’t. What’s in here?” He shook the kraft-wrapped package. “If it candy, I sure hope it the right flavor. Creamies. He be pissed off for a week when it wrong.”

Jamal strode along the gravel path, looking apprehensively at the rain clouds building. Just his luck: he’d get his car cleaned, and it would pour. Well, at least the crazy old man was where he was supposed to be, sitting on his bench.

“Look, Old Monty,” Jamal said impatiently. “I done brought you a present. Don’t ask me who it from, ’cause it ain’t on here. Looks like somebody decided to give you a bonus this week. Wish somebody do the same for me.”