War (33 page)

“He’s a snake, that one,” remarked Hulton. Then he rushed to correct himself. “Mr. Curle, I meant, milord!”

Hugh laughed again, and paraphrased something he had said to Hulton long ago, when they went to the Fruit Wench, and Hulton, having read
Richard the Third
, asked if it was permitted to call a late king a bastard. “Hulton, it is right to call my uncle anything — or nothing at all!” He took a sip of his wine, then said, “And you must call me ‘Mr. Kenrick.’ I have dispensed with the balderdash of ‘milord’ and other such terms. I have forbidden the appellation. This is not England.”

Hulton blinked once. “Yes…sir.”

“And we must decide what to do with you.”

“I could act as your valet…sir.”

Hugh shook his head. “I have a valet. Mr. Spears. No, you must learn another trade. Mr. Zouch, my brickmaker, could use some assistance at the kiln. You will be paid. That is, if you wish to remain here.” When Hulton said nothing, he continued. “You are a free man, in a manner of speaking. It is for you to decide.”

After a long moment, Hulton replied, “Yes, sir. I accept. I am…unsettled, you see, and don’t know what else to do now. It has been a trying time.”

“Of course. But first, you shall rest, and regain the strength of mind and body.” Hugh studied his former valet for a moment. “It is good to see you again, Hulton. Never doubt that you are welcome here. My parents will be happy to learn of your resurrection, as well!”

“Thank you…sir.” Hulton glanced around the supper room, and for the first time noticed the Westcott portrait of Hugh’s parents on the wall across from him. “How did you come by this place…Mr. Kenrick? Captain Tallmadge once described it to me, but I could not quite believe it.”

Hugh smiled. “Now it is time to relate my own adventures, Hulton.”

T
hat same day, Under-Sheriff George Roane rode about the county with a black servant from Sheriff Tippet’s household, to post a broadsheet delivered that morning from Williamsburg, where it had been printed on the press of one of the
Gazettes
. Composed by Reverend Acland, it read:

“Recent contentions and troubles coursing among the denizens of our fair colony have made it imperative that loyal and respected citizens of Queen Anne County move to fulfill their spiritual and civic obligations to their fellow citizens to establish a COMMITTEE OF SAFETY in defense of Christian civility, justice and temporal security. The COMMITTEE have assumed the burden of ensuring the serenity of this County in these unsettling times until the power and office of His Excellency John Murray, Earl of Dunmore, our lawful Governor and Protector, have been reinstated in their proper legal and appointive venue in the capital. The COMMITTEE OF SAFETY, composed of the undersigned persons, will henceforth direct and oversee the function of our court in both civil and capital matters, and also to enforce standing regulations, statutes and taxes, and overall be responsible for the orderly conduct of our lives. All ye who reside in or enter Queen Anne County are bound to submit to the COMMITTEE’s authority. God save the king. Decreed on this 30th day of August 1775, by order of
:

Reece Vishonn, Enderly

Edgar Cullis, Cullis Hall

Carver Gramatan

Moses Corbin, Mayor of Caxton

Cabal Tippet, Sheriff of the County

The Reverend Albert Acland, pastor of Stepney Parish”

Roane put the broadsheets up on the doors of the courthouse, various shops, the church, the tobacco inspector’s office on the riverfront, on the posts of the Hove Stream Bridge, and in other places where they would be noticed. Edgar Cullis and Vishonn at first questioned the wisdom of ending the decree with “God save the king,” but they had read that delegates to the Virginia Convention and the Congress in Philadelphia continued to assert their loyalty to the sovereign even in their most outrageous addresses to
Parliament, so it was decided to leave it in.

Roane also rode to the properties of the leading planters and farmers and delivered copies of the broadsheet to their proprietors. Jock Fraser happened to meet Roane as he rode up, and promptly tore up the broadsheet and flung its pieces into the under-sheriff’s face. Jack Frake, riding out of Morland Hall to call on John Proudlocks, met Roane on the connecting road, was handed a copy, and said to Roane, “You may tell your committee that I do not recognize their authority.” He calmly tore the paper into neat pieces and handed them back with a smile to the wary officer.

“There will be trouble, sir, if you don’t,” warned Roane.

“There will be trouble, regardless.”

Roane also nailed broadsheets to the doors of Caxton’s three taverns: the Gramatan Inn, Fern’s, and Safford’s Arms. Steven Safford heard the hammering above the hubbub of his patrons, and went out to see Roane and the servant riding away. He tore off the broadsheet, read it, and took it back inside. He flung the broadsheet into the cooking fireplace.

Hugh Kenrick learned about the broadsheet from Spears, his valet, who found it folded and inserted inside the jam of the front door of the great house. He took it to the supper room where his employer was having dinner with Hulton. “I did not see who left it, sir,” he said. Hugh glanced at it, then asked Spears to put it on his study desk. He was too distracted with Hulton to pay it closer attention. It was only in the evening, after Hulton had retired in the guest room, that he read the broadsheet and pondered the implications of its contents. He left the study, walked to the stable with the broadsheet, and rode to Morland Hall.

He reached it just as the last light of dusk was ebbing to darkness. He found Jack Frake sitting on the porch, seegar in hand, a crystal decanter of Madeira on a side table with glasses. His friend waved him to a chair on the other side of the table and offered him a glass of the wine.

Hugh nodded to the decanter as Jack Frake poured the liquid into both glasses. “French?”

“Italian, I think,” answered Jack Frake. “The set was a wedding gift from Etáin’s parents. We used it only on special occasions. On our anniversary, mostly.”

Hugh considered this answer for a moment. “Is this…a special occasion?” He asked, accepting a glass from Jack Frake, and for some reason, dreading the answer.

“Yes.” Jack Frake nodded to the broadsheet in Hugh’s other hand.

Hugh could not mistake the look of sadness in his friend’s glance. He gestured with the sheet once, then lay it on the table. “Did you not receive one?”

“In person, earlier today. I told Mr. Roane I did not recognize the committee’s authority, and gave it back to him in half as many pieces as there are words in that decree.”

Hugh let a moment pass before he said, “They will not brook defiance or disobedience, Jack.”

“So I was told by Mr. Roane.” Jack Frake paused. “And I will not brook tyranny.”

Hugh could not help but feel a sense of resignation in his friend’s demeanor, that Jack Frake was enjoying his property perhaps for the last time. The dread welled up in him again. He smiled tentatively, and as they sipped their Madeira, told Jack Frake about Hulton, including his service under Roger Tallmadge in Boston, and why he had returned.

Jack Frake smiled. “There’s a man who seems to have a grip on himself. I’m happy for you that he found you again.” He paused. “We shall see much desertion in the years ahead, from both sides.”

Hugh nodded agreement. “You shall meet him, tomorrow, I hope.”

They were silent for a while. The darkness enveloped the fields beyond. Only a few lights from the tenants’ cottages in the distance suggested the substance of those fields, together with the sounds of crickets, owls and tree frogs. Jack Frake and Hugh Kenrick sat quietly, staring into the darkness, alone with their own thoughts.

Jack Frake said, “I refused to be sold into slavery. That was the beginning of my life.”

“I would not bow or apologize to the Duke of Cumberland,” Hugh answered. “That was the beginning of mine.” Then he shook his head. “No, we are both wrong about that, Jack. Our lives began when we chose to think, long before either of us acted.”

Jack Frake looked at his friend and smiled. “Correction noted, and accepted.” Then his expression altered. He looked grim and merciless. He said, “The
Sparrowhawk
must be destroyed, Hugh, when she reappears. And she will come for us. Then we will be free. Both of us.”

Hugh Kenrick held his friend’s glance, and nodded silent agreement.

* * *

Early the next morning, the
Sparrowhawk
appeared on the York River, followed by the sloop
Basilisk
. Both vessels flew the Customs Jack over their sterns, and Customs pendants from their main topgallants, and took in sail to stop at Caxton. The sight startled the early risers of the town, among them Sheriff Tippet, who witnessed the arrival from the office window of his house, which sat on the bluff that overlooked the riverfront. He sent a servant to inform Mayor Corbin of the vessels’ arrival, and to instruct George Roane, who lived in a cottage a short distance from Tippet’s house, to ride to Enderly with the news and the suggestion to Mr. Vishonn that the loyal militia should be assembled and ready to march to the town, and to Cullis Hall, to alert the committee of safety’s most important member.

The
Sparrowhawk
dropped her anchors in the river some distance away from the piers. The
Basilisk
tied up to Caxton’s main pier, and six men descended the gangboard, among them Jared Hunt. One of the men, wearing the uniform of an officer of marines, walked beside Hunt. The party passed the tobacco inspector’s house and climbed the road to Queen Anne Street. Tippet searched for his long-glass and trained it on the
Sparrowhawk
. On its deck he saw several other men in red mingled with the crew, who were busy preparing longboats to lower over the sides. So, he thought, the hearsay was true: Mr. Hunt had got himself some marines, and Governor Dunmore himself a portion of an army regiment. Tippet put down the long-glass and left the room to instruct his wife to have some refreshments prepared for visitors. “Oh, Cabal, is there going to be trouble?” she asked worriedly.

“I don’t know, Muriel,” answered the sheriff. “I hope for all our sakes there isn’t.”

“Does Mr. Safford know what’s to happen?”

Sheriff Tippet shook his head. He returned to his office, found a pistol, and loaded it with powder and ball for the first time in years. He had used it only twice since then, to shoot a raccoon that had mauled one of his dogs, and then later on the dog itself, which had gone mad and fought with the others in his kennel. He had had to dispose of all of them.

Some minutes later there was a knock on his front door.

Two hours passed in the Tippet residence, filled with many draughts of tea, a plate of sweetmeats, and convivial conversation. Jared Hunt was in a jaunty mood, enquiring about the business at hand only to determine if the “true” county militia was to be expected soon.

Sheriff Tippet assured him that it was. “The committee, too, sir,” he
added. “Mr. Vishonn and Mr. Cullis agreed that it was imperative that all parties be present today.”

“Imperative it is, my good man,” replied Hunt. Then he began to regale his hosts and companions with several anecdotes of his adventurous life in London and Hampton, omitting, of course, to mention his relationship with the Earl of Danvers and his true mission on these shores.

Major Ragsdale said little. The other Customs men deferred to Mr. Hunt in setting and dominating the subject of conversation. They were joined shortly by Reverend Acland, who had been working in his garden and noticed the vessels. He had quickly discarded his apron, donned his frock coat, and rushed to the Tippet house. He knew what was to happen today, and did not want to miss anything. Mayor Corbin, roused from sleep, followed him shortly thereafter.

Carver Gramatan was alerted to the vessels’ presence by Mary Griffin, his serving girl, who had also seen the vessels arrive. He quickly walked down Queen Anne. After being introduced to the party and apprised by Tippet and Hunt of the situation, Gramatan engaged the major in a separate conversation about the nobility of the English countryside. It was revealed that Major Ragsdale was a distant relation of the tenth Earl of Pembroke of Wiltshire, while Gramatan claimed that his family was “closely related” to two Wiltshire families that had intermarried with the Pembrokes. “For all we know, sir,” said Gramatan, “we may be cousins.” The major rolled his eyes away from this rustic. He took some snuff and wished the man would go away. There is a hierarchy even among would-be bloods.

Then they all heard a drum. The militia was marching into town. The gentlemen all rose and left the house to walk up Queen Anne Street to meet the militia in front of Safford’s Arms Tavern. Sheriff Tippet, his pistol fixed firmly in his belt, asked Jared Hunt, “What role will Major Ragsdale’s marines play in this affair, sir?”

“None, Mr. Tippet,” answered Hunt. “Not unless a shot is fired.” He turned and pointed to the
Sparrowhawk
in the river. “The good major’s officers watch us.” As they walked, Hunt said, “I have suggested to Major Ragsdale that if his fellows are needed here, they may billet in the tavern.”

Sheriff Tippet shrugged. “If it is closed, I cannot think of a better purpose it could be put to, sir.” He glanced back once at Hunt’s colleagues from the Customs. “What is the purpose of your fellows here, sir?”

“Doubtless a man of Mr. Safford’s character will have contraband to
find and seize.”

As they approached Safford’s tavern, they saw that Vishonn’s militia had already formed into two lines across Queen Anne Street from the tavern, muskets shouldered but at ease. Reece Vishonn sat on horseback at the end of the lines, looking very much like a colonel. The “true” county militia numbered twenty men, some of whom were veterans of the last war, and one or two had marched with General Lewis’s forces last fall during Governor Dunmore’s campaign in the west.

Jared Hunt, Sheriff Tippet and the major strode up to Vishonn. Hunt introduced the major, then asked, “May we proceed, Mr. Vishonn?”

“We should wait for Mr. Cullis, sir,” answered Vishonn. In a lower voice, he added, because townsfolk were beginning to collect in curiosity around them, “He has the warrant, and the committee concur that all on it should be present, in order to make a proper impression.”

“Fine idea, sir,” Hunt said. “Let us be
proper
.”

Major Ragsdale stood a little apart from the group and militia.

As if on cue, Edgar Cullis was seen in the distance to come onto the street with George Roane. A minute later, they rode up to join the tableau. Cullis doffed his hat, and introductions were made. The lawyer then beckoned to Sheriff Tippet, who approached. Cullis handed down a folded paper. “There is your warrant for Mr. Safford’s arrest, which also orders his establishment closed.” He saw the sheriff gulp once. Cullis added with a mocking grin, “The committee will present it together. No need to fret.”

Tippet unfolded the warrant and read it. He nodded, and turned to face the tavern. Several boat hands had come out onto the tavern porch. Edgar Cullis dismounted and handed the reins of his mount to Vishonn. Tippet gestured to Roane to join him. Roane dismounted and tied his mount to a hitching post in front of Lucas Rittles’s store. The five committeemen and Hunt crossed the street and mounted the steps of the tavern porch, followed by the four Customsmen. The boat hands moved out of the way.

The intruders all breathed easier when they saw only Steven Safford, a serving boy, and two patrons in the room. Sheriff Tippet stepped forward, cleared his throat, and announced, “By order of the lawful committee of safety of this county, I am empowered to order the immediate closing of this establishment, and the arrest of its proprietor, Mr. Steven Safford, for having permitted said establishment to be used to harbor conspirators and conspiracies against His Majesty’s authority over the dominion of Virginia.” The patrons glanced at each other, then rose immediately from their
table and left.