SH06_War Page 5

  Near the statue of Botetourt, two gentlemen, one young and one old, discussed the Governor and his actions. “He claims that the Pennsylvania government is lax in protecting the western settlers from the Indians,” observed the younger gentleman in reply to the other’s indiscreet and somewhat ribald remark about the Governor, “and that the settlers there would likely prefer to be governed by Virginia. He commissioned a chap by the name of John Connolly to act as governor there.”

  “Prefer to be governed by Virginia?” scoffed the older. “Say, rather, by Lord Dunmore! And how long would that happy union last, once they got to know His Excellency’s means and aims?”

  “He plans, I am told, to rename Fort Pitt after himself, and will send Connolly to occupy it.”

  “The hubris of him! What has he in mind? A war between our two colonies? What blindness! What temerity! His Majesty won’t stand for it, not for a moment! He’ll intervene, and then perhaps we’ll be blessed with a wiser governor and more just laws!”

  The first gentleman demurred a reply to this latest aspersion, and instead effortlessly redirected the conversation. “I have heard that a Shawnee chief by the name of Cornstalk intends to wipe out our settlements along the Ohio, and perhaps carry a war into western Virginia, as well. The Governor could only do his duty and call for the militia in answer.”

  “Perhaps he must, sir! But, wouldn’t that fit nicely into the Crown’s designs, to keep us penned east of the mountains?” said the older gentleman with bitterness. “I know it would please His Excellency no end! Going to war with the Shawnees and Ottawas up there would distract our attention from his designs here, and cast him unfairly in the role of savior and hero! Then his earlish prerogative would allow him the pick of patented lands that others have already paid for! Royal robbery, I say! We know what he’s up to!”

  Again, the first gentleman ignored the calumny. He accounted for it by supposing that his companion owned patented land west of the transmontane, which he could now not even lawfully visit, let alone exploit. He delicately raised the topic of a possible rebellion against Crown authority. “I am told that he opines that any rebels would be pinched betwixt loyal subjects and indifferent ones, not only here, but throughout the colonies. I am afraid he may be correct in that assessment. One may observe no unanimity in dissent in the colonies.”

  “Did he now?” The other gentleman looked quizzically into his companion’s face. “Zounds! You are a mine of information, sir!” He paused to take a generous sip from the stoneware mug he held. “Speaking of western settlers, what of our own? No new counties may be created by the Assembly without Crown approval, and no approved county could be represented in the Assembly! More robbery!”

  The other gentleman ventured ruefully, “Why, they would be virtually represented in your Assembly, just as nine-tenths of the populace of Britain are represented in Parliament.”

  “Bosh! What Assembly?” dismissed the second gentleman with a wild gesture to the House chamber with his mug, whose contents flew out and splashed to the ground. “They are intent on committing liberticide!”

  It was the first time the other gentleman had heard the term, though he needed no definition of it. He knew that his companion was emboldened in his incautious remarks by the potent rum punch being served this evening. Drunk for a penny, nearly under the table for tuppence! But angry, as well; perhaps rightfully so, he reflected. Still, one thing he had learned during his years as a diplomatic attaché, was that diligent sobriety in many upright men was an iron door whose key was often simply a few judicious bumpers of excellent wine. Skillfully, liberally, and patiently applied, spirits could nearly always open that door to bare the soul and most secret thoughts of the most guarded courtier, confidant, or envoy.

  With a smile he gently removed the mug from the gentleman’s hand and placed it on a corner of the pedestal. Like most of the other drinking vessels being employed at the ball this evening, the mug sported a cameo silhouette of John Wilkes on one side, and “No. ’45” on the other. He supposed that the presence of these mugs was a subtle act of defiance by the burgesses, but one apparently lost on the Governor. His companion did not seem to notice the courtesy. “Who, sir, is committing liberticide?”

  “All the men upholding Crown authority!” The gentleman again studied his companion more closely with squinted eyes, and inquired, “Who are you, sir? I don’t recollect your name or viz.”

  The handsome, equally well-attired gentleman smiled and replied, “Roger Tallmadge…of Boston. I am touring Virginia in search of a purchase, perhaps a tired plantation I might revive.”

  “Well, you’d better hurry, sir, before our Governor beats you to it!”

  Tallmadge nodded to his companion. “I should agree with you about that, I am told, as well.” He smiled again and asked, “And you, sir? With whom have I the pleasure of speaking?”

  “Reece Vishonn, sir!” boasted the gentleman. “I am master of Enderly plantation in Queen Anne County!” Vishonn put a friendly hand on Tallmadge’s shoulder. “If you plan to pass through my parts, please accept my hospitality! I must warn you, though, there is no property there for sale!”

  “Thank you, sir. If I happen in that direction, I will surely pay a call.” The captain was tempted to ask his companion if he knew Hugh Kenrick, but decided against the query.

  Much of his “hearsay” was communicated to him by Lord Dunmore over supper at the Palace the previous evening. He had been personally invited by the Governor to the ball tonight. He had accepted, half hoping that Hugh might be in attendance. But, his friend was not here.

  And, he had accepted because his estimation of Lord Dunmore’s character and governing policy was growing more and more negative. The man seemed prone to churlish vindictiveness. He was certain that to have refused the invitation would have sent the Governor into high dudgeon. He concluded that the man’s character was so overbearing and sensitive to abrasion that, had he declined the invitation and incurred the man’s animosity, it was likely that the Governor would have broadcast his identity as a serving officer in the Crown, and his mission, as well.

  After a few more minutes of conversation with the planter, whom he left leaning against a column in a besotted but pensive mood, Tallmadge returned to the ballroom and took his leave of the Governor and his lady, thanking them for the invitation and informing His Excellency that he would depart Williamsburg early in the morning. The couple wished him Godspeed and a fruitful journey.

  When he returned to Maupin’s tavern later that evening, he found affixed to the door of that establishment a freshly printed broadside entitled “An Association, signed by 89 members of the Late House of Burgesses,” bearing today’s date. He gently removed the broadside from the door, folded it, and put it inside his frock coat. Inside, after a brief exchange of pleasantries with the proprietor, he ascended the stairs to the room he shared with Lieutenant Manners. Here he reopened the broadside and read it with some amusement but little offense, and searched through the numerous, densely packed rows of names printed at the end of the statement. He did not see Hugh Kenrick’s.

  He thought its absence very curious.

  “How was the ball, sir?” asked the junior officer, who sat in his nightshirt at a small desk in the corner, reading a military manual by candlelight, Clarke’s 1767 translation of Roman general Flavius Vegetius Renatua’s treatise, De Re Militari. Tallmadge had read that, and many French army manuals, plus Frederick the Great’s own military treatise years ago, and insisted that his aide read them on the mission for “diversion” and “edification.”

  “Instructive, Mr. Manners,” answered Tallmadge. “Very instructive. If His Excellency has his way, this colony may well need to adopt ‘Land of the Leal’ as its particular anthem.”

  “Bloody, greedy Scots!” muttered the lieutenant.

  Tallmadge mildly rebuked his aide. “Be kind, Mr. Manners. They are half the backbone of the empire, in commerce and in troops.”

  Captain Tallmad
ge and his aide rode out of Williamsburg the next morning, the rising sun on their backs, and reached the Hove Stream bridge outside of Caxton by mid-day. The captain asked a passing farmer on his way to Williamsburg with a wagon of produce for directions to Meum Hall. Soon, in the distance, over a rise on Freehold Road that paralleled the stream, they could see the undulating red pennant and furled topgallant sails of the masts of a merchantman at rest, and, beyond them, a broad gray-blue streak of the York River.

  * * *

  Jack Frake sat in his library, estimating on paper the number of tobacco seedlings that were now being transferred from the seedbeds to the fields by the tenants. He glanced up now and then to watch them at the task through his window. The rye and barley sown last winter were coming up, and the corn and oats had already been planted. Together with an uncertain political situation — all of Caxton knew that the Governor had dissolved the Assembly two days ago — it was becoming more difficult to plan the proportions of his crops now, because of the uncertainty of their markets and transportation.

  There was a knock on his door, and Ruth Dakin, a house servant and wife of Henry Dakin, the cooper, opened it and stood at the threshold. She exclaimed excitedly, “Master Frake! Look who’s come home!” She stood aside to reveal the figure of John Proudlocks, who wore a broad grin.

  Jack dropped his pencil and rose instantly to go to his friend and former tenant. He took the man’s hand in both of his and shook it vigorously. “Welcome back, John!” he laughed.

  Proudlocks also laughed. “It’s good to be back, sir!”

  “Sir??” queried Jack with astonishment.

  Proudlocks shook his head. “I have learned to avoid unintended assonances, Jack.”

  Jack waved his friend to a chair in front of his desk. “How was the crossing?”

  “Uneventful,” Proudlocks said, coming in. “Six weeks before a good set of winds. Mr. Geary called them soldiers’ winds. He will come up shortly with your mail.”

  Jack said to Ruth Dakin, “Ruth, some port, please.”

  The servant nodded and left the room to fetch the refreshments.

  When he was settled in his own chair behind the desk, he studied Proudlocks, who was garbed in a fine frock coat and other gentleman’s wear. Proudlocks removed his tricorn and put it on Jack’s desk. His hair had been barbered, and was tied in back with a brown ribbon.

  Jack noted a great difference in his friend, one that not even their frequent letters between Caxton and London over the last three years could have prepared him for. He saw a broader wisdom, a vaster knowledge, and, somehow, a completion in the man whom he thought had been complete when he saw him board the Sparrowhawk to begin his voyage to England to study law.

  Proudlocks braved the scrutiny with an amused smile. “I have not changed, Jack.”

  “No, you haven’t,” answered Jack. “Did you come here directly from the waterfront?”

  “No. I stopped at Sachem Hall first, to look at the place.” Proudlocks paused. “I have not yet reconciled myself to the fact that the place is mine. I left so soon after Mr. Reisdale’s passing.”

  “Mr. Corsin has kept it going properly,” said Jack. Enolls Corsin was the business agent and steward of the late Thomas Reisdale’s plantation. “I helped him dispose of some of your crops, and Mr. Dakin and Mr. Topham repaired some of the outbuildings.” He grinned. “You know, your staff has taken to referring to you as ‘Prodigal Proudlocks.’”

  “Yes. You mentioned that in one of your letters. I have been the absentee owner, haven’t I?” remarked Proudlocks with a chuckle. “Where is Etáin?”

  “At Mr. Kenrick’s, talking music with Reverdy. She’ll be delighted to have you back. You must stay for supper.”

  “I will, thank you.” Proudlocks added, “I brought her a bundle of sheet music.”

  “She will thank you for it.” Jack sat back in his chair. “Well, was it worth the time?”

  “Yes, it was well worth the time.”

  Ruth Dakin returned with a tray holding two mugs and two bottles of port. She served the men, then left the room.

  After a sip of his port, Proudlocks said, “I shall miss London. I almost felt as though I belonged there. There is so much to see and do there. It is a stimulating city. I must accustom myself again to Caxton’s more leisurely ways.”

  “I once thought that about London,” Jack mused. “I saw it just the one time, with Redmagne.”

  “Hugh’s parents send you their regards, and hope you will write them even though I am no longer there.” Proudlocks paused. “I shall miss them, as well. They are fine people.”

  Jack nodded agreement. “I will write them.”

  They did not need to discuss politics. Among his other and numerous observations about Britain, Proudlocks had written Jack that there existed a certain fickleness both in the law he studied at Gray’s Inn — Garnet Kenrick had been instrumental in having Proudlocks admitted for study there — and in the populace itself. “The laws for liberty here are happenstance and circumstantial in nature,” he had written once. “We cannot depend on them to guarantee our own liberty, nor on any justice to argue for us. Those few who do argue for us, such as Lord Camden, are checkmated on a chess board of kings and bishops and little men.” Now he said, with a special, sad smile, mixed with some wonderment, “Jack, all the while I was there, after I had grown accustomed to the place, I was daily struck by how right you have been all these years, from three thousand miles away.”

  Jack nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. “About the likelihood of war?”

  “About that, and about the reasons.” Proudlocks paused. “About the differences between their people and ours.” He frowned. “About the necessity for independence.”

  Jack sipped his port. “While you were away,” he said with a sad smile of his own, “more men have caught up with me in that respect — to put it in Etáin’s words.” For a moment, he seemed to ponder the thought, then to reach a decision. Abruptly, he put down his mug and picked up a candleholder as he rose. “Come with me, John. I must show you something.”

  He led Proudlocks to the cellar of the great house. With the candle he lit a lantern that hung from a hook on the wall inside the cellar door, and left the candleholder on the dirt floor. With the lantern he threaded through stalls of plantation supplies and household necessities. There was a crude plank door with an iron lock at the end of one row of stalls that indicated a chamber that had been extended beyond the cellar. With a key he took from his pocket, Jack opened the door. The chamber was small and cool; it had brick walls, a brick floor, and a low plastered ceiling. Several crude square boxes sat stacked on the floor on one side. On another, a sailcloth tarpaulin covered some long objects.

  Jack motioned Proudlocks closer to the boxes and held the lantern next to one of them.

  Proudlocks stooped to read the lettering on a side of the box: “Barret’s Volley.” He turned his head and squinted a query.

  “Musket balls,” said Jack. “Poured and fashioned from Mr. Barret’s seized type by Mr. Crompton in his brick kiln.” Aymer Crompton was Morland’s brickmaster. Jack stood up and nodded to the other boxes. “More musket balls, and powder, courtesy of Mr. Ramshaw on one of his Barbados trips.” He turned and gestured with the lantern at the tarpaulin across the chamber. “Open it, John,” he said.

  Proudlocks, hunched over beneath the low ceiling, moved to the tarpaulin and jerked it away. He saw long boxes that could only contain muskets, and a swivel gun and all the accessories for firing it — a box of ordnance to load into it, a rammer, linstock, sponger, wadding, and a water bucket. Proudlocks put a hand on the brass length of the swivel gun and glanced at Jack.

  “From the Sparrowhawk,” Jack said. “Before he retired, Mr. Ramshaw retired that, as well.”

  Proudlocks also noted a long-gun and its stanchion. It was an over-size musket that could fire the same size ball as the swivel gun, and had twice the range of a firelock. “Where did you find this?”
he asked with amazement, running a hand along the monster barrel.

  “Mr. Ramshaw bought it in Jamaica from a planter there.”

  Proudlocks replaced the tarpaulin and faced his friend. He gestured to the chamber. “You have not told anyone about this?”

  Jack shook his head. “Only Etáin, and certain of my staff who helped me stock this room. Everyone else believes I have constructed an ice cellar.”

  “You did not mention this armory in your letters.”

  “That is because I have heard that the Crown is reading correspondence to and from the colonies. Mr. Ramshaw warned me of that outrage, as well.”

  “And Mr. Kenrick — does he know?”

  “No.”

  “May I ask why not?”

  “He has not quite caught up with me.” Jack nodded to the contents of the chamber. “This is for those who have.”

  “He is your friend, as well. And mine.”

  Jack briefly closed his eyes. “That is another matter.” After a moment, he added, “I will tell him about this when I think it is proper. Forgive me for asking you to keep this a secret from him.”

  Proudlocks nodded once. “It is not necessary for me to forgive you, Jack.” He did not pursue the subject. He moved over to the box labeled “Barret’s Volley.” He smiled. “He would have approved of this use of his type.” After a pause, he looked mischievous and added, “You have ensured that he and the Courier will have the last word, if I may fashion a pun.”

  “That is my literal intent, John,” answered Jack with a faint smile. “No pun intended.” After a moment, he said, “Well, enough of this. You’ve seen it. Let’s go back to my study and you can tell me more of your London adventures. Etáin should return shortly.”

  * * *

  Although Meum Hall had been described to him by his friend in letters over the years, and he had seen many larger plantations on his journey from South Carolina, Roger Tallmadge was still impressed by the size of the place, and by its oddly utilitarian beauty. He and Lieutenant Manners stopped for a moment at the end of the estate near the Hove Stream before proceeding through the fields to the great house they saw in the distance. He grinned with some pride and remarked to his aide, “My brother-in-law’s property. We shall stay here a few days, before continuing, Mr. Manners.”