Sparrowhawk III Page 2

  France was fated to lose North America, no matter how long that theater of war lasted. Its imperial policy differed radically from Britain’s. It was not conceived to encourage colonization and the development of agriculture or industry. The French were there to literally skin the continent for as much as they could get — in the fur trade. Their military presence was wholly dependent on a corrupt civil government in Montreal, parsimonious largesse from a French king and his advisors, whatever it could wring in taxes and obedience from a handful of local French farmers, and what little it could buy or steal from New Englanders. On the other hand, Britain’s military presence was sustained by the British-nurtured civilization on the Eastern seaboard, together with a colonial animus for French policies. Wolfe could have met disaster on the Plains of Abraham, and it would not have mattered. In time, Canada would have become British.

  To the colonists, the surrender of Quebec, and a year later of Montreal, meant the elimination of the French threat from the north, and also easier settlement of the west. It meant the end of “Papist” designs on the colonies and the preservation of English liberties they enjoyed. It meant a British Canada. It meant a secure northern frontier.

  A British Canada. To Parliament, to Secretary of State Pitt, to the Privy Council, that meant quite different things, but this was something that would not become apparent for a long time.

  For Virginians, the war with France in North America was almost as distant a conflict as the war in Europe, fought as it was on the far frontiers of the colonies. The past disasters of the British army, balanced by its more recent victories, did not immediately affect the citizens of Caxton. Britain was out of the European part of the Seven Years’ War, fighting it by proxy with subsidies to Frederick the Second of Prussia. His changing fortunes, and those of his enemies the French, Austrians, and Russians, were of only passing interest to most colonials. George the Second may have gasped in horror, and grown livid with outrage, when the French occupied his electoral domain of Hanover, and when his son, the Duke of Cumberland, threw away a victory by assuming that he had been bested at Hastenbeck by another third-rate general, and signed the humiliating treaty of KlosterZeven two years ago. Virginians, however, merely shrugged their shoulders. The war in Europe was being fought over issues, claims and lands that they and their forbears had disowned long ago.

  Neither did the war affect Virginians much in the purse. The colony’s chief export, and the basis of its prosperity, was tobacco. While French and British navies and privateers preyed on each other’s sea commerce, British merchantmen were able to sail regularly, under a flag of truce, to French ports with cargoes of tobacco bought by the Farmers-General of the Revenue, the French state tobacco monopoly, and the largest single buyer on the world market. Both Crowns needed the revenue generated by that trade in order to prosecute the war. The same concordia discors had been in effect during King George’s war, or the War of the Austrian Succession. If the arrangement seemed paradoxical, or suicidal, or venal, the observation was noted by only a very few minds. The era abounded with such contradictions: If the French were gracious, civil, and cultured to a fault, but employed Indian allies specifically for their reputation for unmitigated savagery and the terror they could instill in English settlers and soldiers, then the British were stubbornly arrogant, presumptuous and hard-nosed, but basked in the demonstrable superiority of English common and commercial law.

  * * *

  “Do you trade in the leaf, Mr. Talbot?”

  “Only occasionally, Mr. Stannard. My goods are decidedly inflammable.”

  This remark caused the parties gathered in Mr. Stannard’s parlor to chuckle in amusement. Talbot added, “Mr. Spicer and I correspond almost exclusively with the firm of Worley and Sons, of London, and we trade mostly in dry goods, perishable only through an act of arson or nature.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Stannard. “Worley and Sons? I’ve heard of them.”

  “They are Mr. Kenrick’s family’s principal agents there.” Talbot nodded to his companion. “Mr. Kenrick has recently divided his time between his education and our office.”

  Hugh Kenrick said, “I have spent some years handling made goods, Mr. Stannard. I wish now to try my hand at producing them, in order to more fully appreciate their value.”

  Mr. Stannard grinned a little at this confession of ambition, then frowned. “Have you any experience in raising tobacco, Mr. Kenrick?”

  “None, sir.”

  “With all due respect, sir, it is not merely a matter of planting a seed and watching it grow.”

  “I am aware of the constant attention required by tobacco, Mr. Stannard.”

  Talbot said, “My companion has taken an especial interest in the planters west of Philadelphia, and has invested some time in observing their practices and methods.”

  “Their art does not differ greatly from that practiced here,” Hugh said. “This region, however, has the advantage of a longer growing and curing season.”

  “Yes, that is very true,” conceded Mr. Stannard.

  “Undoubtedly, Mr. Swart has retained a staff who manage his business and crops,” suggested Talbot.

  “Oh, yes. Of course. But they are a very unhappy lot, at the moment.”

  A floor clock in the parlor struck three o’clock. Stannard gestured to the tea service that sat on a small table between the seated men. They had already had the beverage. The guests shook their heads. “Well,” Stannard said, “it would be unfair to Mr. McRae if I continued our interview in his absence. I shall send word to him and to Mr. Swart that you gentlemen are here. And, you must find lodging for the night. I recommend Mrs. Rittles’s boarding house, and if she has nothing that you approve, then Mr. Gramatan’s inn may oblige you. You must have passed those establishments on your way here. Perhaps you would like to attend to that now, sirs, while I arrange for us to meet again at Mr. Gramatan’s inn. He has the best fare in Caxton, and we can engage a private room there to discuss our business.”

  Hugh and Talbot rose. “That sounds agreeable, sir,” Talbot said.

  The agent walked the pair to his front door. “Supper at seven, then, at the Gramatan Inn.” He paused. “Oh! Forgive me for asking this, sirs. But if the property is attractive to you, how would you propose to pay for it?”

  “With a private draft drawn on Swire’s Bank in London, sir,” Hugh said.

  “Swire’s Bank, you say? Well, I’ve heard good things about that enterprise. Yes, very good things, indeed.”

  Talbot asked, “Who are the prominent planters here, Mr. Stannard?”

  “Reece Vishonn, of Enderly — that is the name of his place — to the east of town. Ira Granby, of Granby Hall, which neighbors Enderly. Ralph Cullis, Henry Otway, and some others. All the original families, you know. To the west, Brougham Hall, and Morland Hall, once the late Captain Massie’s, now owned by Mr. Frake.”

  Hugh’s face lit up for the first time. “Is it Jack Frake you mean?” he asked.

  “Why, yes, sir. Jack Frake,” said Stannard. “Are you acquainted with him?”

  “I only know of him,” remarked Hugh, not volunteering more.

  Mr. Stannard grinned, but uneasily. “Perhaps you do. He saved Captain Massie’s life in that awful affair with Braddock on the Monongahela, and also that of one of his sons. Another perished there. Captain Massie led one of the Virginia companies, you see, from this very county. Unfortunately, the son Mr. Frake saved died of wounds en route home. The last son, the oldest, was left at home to look after Morland, but later got himself run through in some drunken altercation in a Williamsburg tavern. Mr. Frake had by that time completed his indenture and married Captain Massie’s only daughter, Jane, and with her came three hundred acres of Morland. Sweet girl, she was. But — she died during childbirth. Mrs. Rittles was her midwife, and the child, a boy, survived his mother by only a month. Captain Massie had taken a French ball that passed through one hip and out the other. The wound flared up again and he died of it. Mrs. Rittles a
scribes a more sentimental cause, that he died of a broken heart; his whole family had gone.

  “Well, anyway, Mr. Frake was like a son to him, and his will left that gentleman all of Morland, or another six hundred acres. If there were any remote relatives who could have challenged the will, none came forward. Now, Mr. Frake is a gentleman, but he’s a solitary fellow, and keeps mostly to himself. He is regarded as a crop master, and produces between thirteen and fourteen hogsheads of sweet-scented every season. His staff are loyal to him, and he treats his tenants with generous fairness. He manages with but six slaves. Stood for burgess two years ago and promised to work for a bill in Williamsburg that would allow citizens to free their slaves without the House’s or Governor’s consent.” Stannard chuckled. “Of course, he was not elected. He has a fine library, perhaps the finest in Queen Anne County, after Mr. Reisdale’s. Morland runs parallel almost the whole length of Brougham Hall, from the river to Hove Creek.”

  The men were standing on the brick steps of the front door of Stannard’s modest house. Talbot asked, “Has he or any of the other planters expressed interest in Brougham Hall, Mr. Stannard?”

  The agent nodded. “Some have. But my and Mr. McRae’s terms are not negotiable. We are asking for cash, or in-kind — or a draft note — to settle Mr. Swart’s affairs and to clear our own books. Regrettably, few of the others are in better positions to extend themselves so much without aggravating their own debts. Mr. McRae and I have resisted all attempts by them to beat down the value of the property, and we are determined to absorb no loss ourselves on Mr. Swart’s balances.”

  “What are you asking for the property, sir?” asked Talbot.

  “Eleven hundred sterling, sir,” said Stannard without hesitation.

  Talbot glanced at Hugh, who nodded acceptance. Talbot said, “Well, sir, that is agreeable, depending, of course, on what we see on the morrow.”

  “I am certain that you and Mr. Kenrick will not be displeased.”

  “Where may we engage mounts?”

  “I shall arrange that for you, sir, and pay the rate myself — ”

  A loud report startled the three men and caused them to turn in its direction. Pedestrians in the street also paused to look toward the river. The noise touched off a chorus of barking dogs.

  “Why, that was the old cannon that sits in front of Sheriff Tippet’s place,” Stannard said. “It’s fired only on the King’s birthday and Christmas day. What the devil…?”

  “I must apologize to you, Mr. Stannard,” Talbot said. “Perhaps we should have conveyed the news to you first before discussing our business.”

  “News, sir? What news?”

  “Quebec has fallen to General Wolfe. That was on the thirteenth of last month. The general opinion is that the rest of Canada cannot help but follow. Unfortunately, it will not be to General Wolfe, who died on the field, as did his opponent, General Montcalm, if the reports are precise.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Stannard, clapping his hands once. “That is wonderful news! Thank God and General Wolfe!” The agent beamed. “Yes, yes! Astoundingly good news! There will be some form of celebration here to mark the occasion, I can assure you! Why, I hope your stay permits you to partake of it!”

  “We shall see, sir,” Talbot said. He touched his hat. “We take our leave now, sir, and look forward to supping with you and Mr. McRae this evening.” The visitors picked up their bags and walked up Queen Anne Street.

  Mr. Stannard immediately sent his son, Joseph, who clerked for him, to inform the Scottish factor of the arrival of the prospective buyers, and then to ride to Brougham Hall to warn Amos Swart to prepare for a visit the next morning. He then found his cane and walked briskly down the street to the parish house of the church, a trim little pine-board place that sat near the red brick, cruciform church and its wooden steeple. He found Reverend Acland in his garden, picking beans from his corn stalks.

  The minister paused to wipe his hands on his apron. “If you are here about the news from Quebec, sir, I’m afraid other heralds have preceded you, including Sheriff Tippet. But, I will not have the bell rung until the post-rider brings some form of written, official confirmation.”

  “Still, it’s wonderful news, is it not?”

  “If it is true, yes — in which case I shall deliver a sermon on Sunday on the subject, and call for a moment of silence to pray for General Wolfe’s soul.”

  Mr. Stannard’s excitement propelled him to make an injudicious remark. “I imagine it may be too late for that, Reverend,” he laughed, “for his soul must have already journeyed to wherever it was ordained to go!”

  Reverend Acland frowned. “If, indeed, he died, sir. The glory of his late career cannot but have helped compensate for his reputedly dissolute life.” He paused. “Surely, this is not the only reason you have paid a call, Mr. Stannard?”

  “True. Here’s more recent news I wish you to hear and appraise.” The agent told the minister about his visitors, and described Hugh Kenrick.

  Reverend Albert Acland came to Caxton fifteen years ago upon graduating from Oxford and taking orders. He came from an old family of Anglican ministers, but found no assignments to his liking in England. He prevailed upon his established clerical friends to persuade the Bishop of London to post him to a colonial parish; the colonies were chronically short of Anglican ministers. He sent twice-yearly reports on his parish and the religious turmoil in Virginia to the Bishop, who had jurisdiction over Anglican churches in the colonies. He was also in regular correspondence with former classmates who had also taken orders and maintained parishes in the British Isles and in other colonies. With church and political news, Acland exchanged gossip with his distant colleagues about the fortunes of other men of the cloth, about the fulminations of certain members of government and Parliament, and about the eccentricities and scandals of many members of the aristocracy. Much of this gossip found its way into the Caxton Courier, in items written by Acland under a carefully guarded pen name.

  By the time Stannard finished speaking, the minister stood openmouthed. “Dear me!” he exclaimed. “That must be the son of the Baron of Danvers, who is brother to the Earl!”

  The agent said, “He has that air about him, sir, though I could not put my finger on it.” He frowned. “How could you be certain of his antecedents, good sir?”

  “I have a colleague in Devon who writes me about the Kenricks and other worthy families there — about Danvers, and Dorset all in all — that is the Earl’s seat, and…. My word! To think of a scion of nobility settling here!” Reverend Acland straightened up and discarded his apron. “Come in for tea, Mr. Stannard, if you can spare the time, so that we may discuss this intelligence!”

  In Reverend Acland’s parlor, half an hour later, Mr. Stannard put down his cup and saucer and said, “Mr. Talbot did most of the talking.” He paused. “And the lad knew of Mr. Frake!”

  “Did he?” the minister said. “How on earth could he know?”

  “He did not say, Reverend.”

  “Mr. Frake is noted in these parts, but I can hardly believe that his repute could extend to the metropolis of Philadelphia!” The minister made this remark with a condescending smirk.

  Mr. Stannard frowned in thought. “The lad strikes me as being a forthright gentleman, sir. There is an easy way to clear any doubts about his identity. I will simply ask him, this very evening, and apologize for my ignorance.”

  The minister waived a hand. “No, no, sir. Not that! If he does not wish to advertise his rank — if neither he nor Mr. Talbot volunteered the information — we should not presume to impinge on his privacy. He might take offense and flee, regardless of his appraisal of Brougham Hall.”

  “If that is your advice, sir, I shall heed it.”

  “Oh, Mr. Stannard!” mused Acland. “We would be blessed if he purchases Brougham Hall! A scion of nobility residing here would have many benefits! Why, he could be appointed to the Governor’s Council, and check certain sentiments there among the gentry he
re, and benefit the county in so many ways!” He lowered his voice. “Perhaps he could contribute to improvements in the parish, and perhaps help repair our superannuated steeple! A new bell, perhaps! I cannot begin to count the possibilities!”

  “I would get back much of Brougham Hall’s tobacco crop!” remarked Mr. Stannard, more to himself than to the minister, “for such a gentleman could not but raise the best sweet-scented, instead of the near-trash Swart now sells to Mr. McRae.” He frowned again. “This has occurred to me just now, sir: If he purchases the property, we can be sure of friction between him and Mr. Frake, who is not friendly to nobility. They would watch each other like rival panthers stalking a doe in the Piedmont.”

  “Perhaps,” the minister said. “My memory is foggy, and I must find the letters from my correspondent in Devon, but I believe there is some evil feeling between Mr. Kenrick and his uncle the Earl. And, I vaguely recall some other scandal attached to his name.”

  Mr. Stannard shrugged. “Perhaps these matters have little to do with why he would be interested in the property, sir. Sons of merchants or nobility do not usually come here for their education and experience. The gentlemen here often send their sons to London. It is a most curious phenomenon, do you not think, sir?”

  Chapter 2: The Town

  The five major rivers flowing into Chesapeake Bay formed peninsulas that together roughly resembled, on a map, the fingers of a greedy hand reaching into the Bay for the Eastern Shore. Of these rivers — the James, the York, the Rappahannock, the Potomac, and the Patuxent — the least troublesome to navigators was the York. Its mouth lay between Mobjack Bay off of Gloucester and the Marshes to the south off of York County. Its source, some twenty-five miles northwest, was the near confluence of the smaller, serpentine, and almost parallel Pamunkey and Mattaponi Rivers, whose peculiarities screened much of the silt that would otherwise have been deposited in the York. Thus the York was able to scour its own bed. Its shoals and sand bars were known and static, while its slowly shifting tidal flats rarely caught watermen, pilots and sea captains by surprise. Sea-draft vessels were almost as common on the river as waterfowl and planters’ tobacco barges. Its channels ranged between thirty to eighty feet deep, often plunging to those depths only a few yards from either bank.