Revolution

by Edward Cline

  Harke grinned bitterly as he recalled Sterling’s words: least disturbance to the populace…utmost discretion. Such caution could be interpreted threescore different ways! And the relationship between the naval and civilian establishments was rife with so many contradictions! Officers could be cashiered for upholding Crown law by bashing the heads of gin-sodden rioters without the Riot Act first having been read, yet he himself had led press gangs in London and Portsmouth to “visit violence” on men who resisted involuntary servitude in His Majesty’s Navy, a common “crime” fully sanctioned by the muteness of civilian courts.

  Harke stood quietly fuming a few feet away from Captain John Ramshaw, who had said little to him the whole trip except for the usual cordial chat. The man’s vessel had been literally commandeered for the mission, so he could not blame the man for his stingy reticence. Harke’s men stood below him in a group on the main deck, apart from the vessel’s few passengers, silent and apprehensive. He heard the pilot call to the topmen in the masts to give him more canvas to catch more of the slight breeze that propelled them upriver. He thought he heard a church bell ring in the far distance, but his mind was too focused on his dilemma to pay it much attention. He stood stiffly at the rail, almost at attention, rocking on his feet now and then, hands clasped behind his back, one of them gripping a spyglass.

  Some time later, Ramshaw returned from some chores in his cabin below, and stood next to him. “Caxton half a league ahead, Mr. Harke.”

  Harke nodded in silent acknowledgement and turned to look in that direction. Beneath a cloudless blue sky he saw the steeple of Stepney Parish church and the still arms of a miller’s windmill on the bluff overlooking a narrow waterfront of wooden and brick structures. There was a crowd on the riverbank at the piers. As the Sparrowhawk neared the town, Harke discerned a man on horseback in the throng holding what looked like a flag on a staff. It fluttered in the wind and he recognized the stripes of an East India jack. He brought up his spyglass and trained it on that object. Yes, it was an East India jack, but the red cross and white canton had been replaced with a blue canton, on which was some lettering he could not make out from this distance.

  “What the devil…?” he muttered to himself. He ranged the glass over the crowd itself. He saw men in it carrying muskets, and others holding staves or long-handled farming tools. The muskets, he noted, were not brandished in any threatening or challenging manner; their bearers looked at leisure, as though they were waiting their turn at a shooting match. Still, thought Harke, the tableau had the character of a military assembly.

  He made up his mind then and there. His mission was hopeless. Sterling was wrong about Caxton: It was as much a venue of resistance to the stamps as Yorktown and Norfolk. He glanced once at Ramshaw. That man was leaning on the railing, seemingly as curious about the tableau as was he.

  Harke frowned. Somehow, the colonials had been warned about this expedition.

  He resolved to try once to persuade the authorities in that crowd to allow him and his party to pass. Failing that, he would return with his men and the stamps on the first vessel the pilot would take back downriver. He saw two smaller coastal vessels and a sloop secured to the piers.

  He felt the eyes of Bosun Olland and the crewmen on him. He turned a blank face in their direction, and they looked away. They saw that it was futile, as well. Harke grimaced and trained his glass again on the jack. The wind played with it enough so that he could read the words in the blue canton: Live free, or die.

  * * *

  An hour before, Reverend Albert Acland of Stepney Parish church was in his vegetable garden at the side of the rectory, fretting over his insect-infested potatoes and cursing the hornworms that had eaten so many leaves in his tobacco patch — that tobacco was a money crop and had sustained him in hard times — when he heard the pounding of hooves approaching the church on Queen Anne Street. The rider seemed to stop directly in front of the church. Then he heard the church door open and someone race through the space to the altar.

  He jumped once when the single bell in the modest steeple began ringing with some odd urgency.

  “What the devil…?” he exclaimed. He left the garden and rushed inside the church through a back door to see who was committing the outrage. Inside the bellroom, he nearly collided with the culprit, Henry Buckle, Thomas Reisdale’s cooper. “What are you doing?” he demanded of the man.

  “Ringing the bell, sir,” replied Buckle, still pulling on the rope.

  “Why?”

  “You will soon see, sir!” said Buckle. “Come to the waterfront in an hour!”

  “Well,” said Acland, “stop this instant! People all over will think something is wrong!”

  Buckle grinned at his pastor. “That’s the idea, sir! Something is wrong! Just a few tugs more!”

  “What are you talking about?” sputtered the minister. “Stop, I say!”

  Buckle let go of the bell rope and smiled almost like a lunatic at the red-faced minister. “The stamps are coming!” he exclaimed as the bell above them swung on its timber to peal in diminishing loudness. “We’re going to send ’em back where they came from!” Then he rushed out, leaving Acland to wonder what it was all about.

  Over the next hour, he watched with growing trepidation as men and women closed their shops along Queen Anne Street and walked singly or in groups toward the waterfront and River Road below the bluff. Soon he noted people from outlying farms and plantations hurrying in the same direction.

  But what sent his heart to his mouth was the sight of Jack Frake, Hugh Kenrick, and John Proudlocks riding together on horseback amongst a group of men he knew were members of the Sons of Liberty. Jack Frake carried a banner, the likes of which the minister had never seen before. Following them in a sulky was Thomas Reisdale, and on horseback behind him the five other justices of the county court, lately adjourned after a three-day sitting.

  “What do you make of this, Mr. Harke?” asked Ramshaw. “You’d think they were expecting a visit by the king! What a royal reception!”

  Harke glanced again at the captain, unsure whether the man was serious or was mocking him.

  “I hope it is mere dumb-show and noise, sir,” he replied, using a phrase whose origins he only vaguely recollected. He had read Hamlet years ago in school, but had forgotten the source of his inaccurate but somehow apt choice of words.

  “Well, I know those people a mite,” said Ramshaw. “A few stern words will part the ways for you and your men. Invoke the name of the king. That usually does the trick.”

  Harke did not think it would. He did not communicate this thought to his host.

  Ramshaw said, “Sir, allow my passengers to disembark first.”

  “No,” answered the officer. “Someone may alert those people down there.”

  “I believe they have already been alerted, Mr. Harke.” Ramshaw clucked his tongue. “Well, sir. Something of a drama at work here! If you go ahead with Captain Sterling’s plan, you may be remembered in history as the man who delivered the stamps over a beach strewn with casualties, in what may be called by some wit the beginning of our second Civil War, or perhaps our second Glorious Revolution!” He paused. “Perhaps you will be available for an interview.”

  “Enough, Mr. Ramshaw,” replied the lieutenant with some tartness. “I see the situation here. I will not press the matter.”

  They were saved an argument. When the Sparrowhawk was secured by hawsers and the gangboard was lowered, and as the anchors were being dropped, several men who looked like gentlemen approached down the pier and stopped to wait at the bottom. One of them was the man whom Harke had first noticed carrying the altered jack. That object was now being held by a dark-complexioned fellow who sat easily in his saddle behind the crowd below.

  Ramshaw preceded Harke down the gangboard to face the waiting men. The leader, a tall, flaxen-haired man with impenetrable gray eyes and a grimly set jaw, nodded once to the captain, who silently returned the greeting and stepped aside. The l
eader turned immediately to face Harke. Before the lieutenant could speak, he asked, “Are you the officer entrusted with delivering a consignment of stamps to Colonel Mercer in Williamsburg?”

  Harke frowned in surprise. What brass! “If I am, sir, I don’t see that it is any of your business.”

  “Colonel Mercer sent word to the sheriff of this county with a request that he take custody of them. The sheriff has declined to. He cannot ensure their safety.”

  “Are you the sheriff?” asked Harke, more intrigued by this change of plan than put out by it.

  “No. But I speak for him.”

  “Then I will speak with that gentleman, sir,” replied Harke with all the officiousness he could muster.

  The tall man shook his head. “He does not wish to speak with you, sir.”

  Harke wanted to reply that this was not the arrangement that he, Sterling, and Mercer had agreed upon in the cabin of the Rainbow. There was no mention of transferring custody of the stamps to anyone but George Mercer. But he had not been impressed with that man’s resolve and was not surprised to hear that he had made other arrangements. Harke stayed his tongue. Instead, he said, addressing the leader and the group of men behind him, “I am on Crown business, sirs, and my best advice to you is to allow me to discharge my duty.” He paused. “What are your names?”

  The leader replied with matching coolness, “Our names are none of your business.”

  Harke scrutinized the delegation. These men were too well dressed to be rabble. They were probably planters. But most of the crowd beyond seemed composed of farmers, tradesmen, and artisans, with a sprinkling of women. Children and slaves also stood in the throng. Harke wondered which person in the crowd was the sheriff.

  He noticed one solitary figure standing at the head of the road that rose from the waterfront to the top of the bluff, a man dressed in the somber hues of a minister.

  Captain Ramshaw, certainly aware of the growing and possibly dangerous tension between the lieutenant and the group, nonetheless with effort repressed a grin. Standing before him was Jack Frake, who was acting as spokesman, and behind him were Hugh Kenrick, Thomas Reisdale, and Jock Frazer. He felt grateful that the first thing Jack Frake had done was deal the lieutenant a false card, thus removing him from any suspicion that he had warned the town of the attempt to smuggle in the stamps.

  Jack Frake continued. “And my advice to you, sir, is this: If you attempt to bring the stamps through Caxton here, you will be opposed. The entire county has been alerted to your presence and business. Sentinels have been posted at every possible landing, up and down the river.”

  Harke narrowed his eyes in defiance of this man. “The Act goes into effect in one day, sir, and if you or any of your companions have any regard for the law, you must recognize that it is imperative that these stamps be delivered to the person who must take final custody of them. You are proposing interference with a Crown officer in the course of his duty. Surely you must know that is a capital offense.”

  His opponent shook his head. “The stamps interfere with our liberties, sir, and that is a much worse offense.”

  Harke sighed with impatience, and looked over Jack Frake’s shoulder. “Is there a magistrate present with whom I might speak?”

  A bespectacled, pale-looking older man, who had the air of a scholar about him, stepped forward. This was Thomas Reisdale, whose name Harke would never learn, either. That man said, “I am a magistrate, sir, and our county court has resolved that since the Act violates our excellent constitution, it is null and void.” Harke began to reply, but the gentleman continued, as though he were lecturing a class of law students. “Of course, that is the obverse side of a corollary. The reverse side of it is equally true: If a court upholds the lawfulness of that Act, then it declares the constitution null and void.” He paused. “Surely, your honor, that must have occurred to you, as well.”

  Another man stepped forward to say, “You labor under a misapprehension, sir. The sheriff receives his place by leave of the Crown in the person of our Governor.” This was Hugh Kenrick. “The articles in your custody are creatures of Parliament, whose legislative authority cannot extend to governing or altering the internal business of His Majesty’s colonies. So the sheriff of our county cannot assume responsibility for the stamps.”

  A fourth delegate added with a Scots burr, “So you see, your honor, we have a higher regard for the law than do Parliament, and that’s a fact!”

  Harke could not hold his temper. “The Act was endorsed by His Majesty, may I remind you gentlemen, so it is his law that you propose to flout!”

  The leader remarked, “Then the king was ill-advised to endorse it.”

  “And ill at the time, so we have heard,” added the magistrate. “We have granted him our doubts concerning the state of his mind when the Act was proffered for his seal. We would not gainsay his wisdom in the matter.”

  This assault, combined with the presumptuous leniency accorded the sovereign, was too much for the lieutenant to grasp and reply to. Constitutional and legal arguments were beyond his ken. He was trained to lead men, sail ships, guess the weather, and assess military crises, not trade rebuttals and retorts. He managed to stop himself from sputtering in furious frustration.

  The leader seemed to sense his impotence to argue or protest, and said, almost with the casual friendliness of conversation, “If you attempt to discharge your duty, sir, we will restrain you and your men, and seize and burn the stamps.” He nodded to a small brick house that stood at the end of a tobacco warehouse. “Do you see the pile of ashes yonder, sir? That is where the inspector here destroys trash leaf. I can promise you that that is where the stamps will meet their end, as well.”

  Harke tried to make himself as tall as his tormentor. “Then you will be opposed, sir!”

  Again, the leader shrugged. “So be it.”

  Hugh Kenrick said with disquieting calmness, “If you attempt to board this ship of liberty, sir, you will be repelled.”

  Harke was beside himself with unchanneled rage. He had continued arguing against his own best advice because he did not like surrendering the issue or the moment to these arrogant colonials. He fixed his sight on the flag that fluttered on the staff held by the horseman beyond the listening crowd. He could read the lettering on one of the white stripes now: Sons of Liberty.

  So that was it! He was faced with one of these damned “patriotic” vigilance clubs! They seemed to be springing up everywhere, throughout all the colonies, so Captain Sterling had informed him. Harke raised his spyglass and pointed to the flag with it. He bellowed, “How dare you desecrate the king’s colors??”

  Jack Frake glanced once at the banner that was held by John Proudlocks, and smiled. “We have not desecrated them, sir. We have removed them.” He nodded once in courtesy. “Good day to you, sir.” Then he turned to address his companions. “Our business here is finished, gentlemen.” He led his companions back down the pier, where they joined the silent, waiting crowd.

  Ramshaw glanced at the lieutenant in wordless question. Harke replied with a grimace, then turned and strode back up the gangboard. Ramshaw followed him to the quarterdeck.

  “Mr. Ramshaw,” said Harke, “you may disembark your passengers. I am abandoning the mission. Please ask the pilot to inform me when he plans to depart and on which vessel. We are returning to Hampton. I shall transfer the stamps to that vessel when it is ready.”

  “And Mr. Mercer?” queried Ramshaw. “Will you want to send him a message?”

  Harke exploded. “Damn Mr. Mercer! He may stew in his own funk!”

  Ramshaw managed to look innocent. “A wise decision, Mr. Harke,” he sighed.

  The lieutenant softened the rigid set of his face. “May I have a letter from you to Captain Sterling, one that will exonerate me and my men of the predicament here?”

  “Gladly, sir,” replied Ramshaw, managing to stifle a chuckle. “I shall credit the good sense of your action.”

  Ramshaw turned
and went down to the main deck to tell his passengers that they could leave the vessel. Lieutenant Harke glanced at Bosun Olland and his men, then looked away and turned his back on them to gaze over the stern in angry shame. If his glance had lingered a moment more, he would have seen in his crewmen’s expressions gratitude, relief, and even a dollop of respect for his decision.

  Ramshaw returned to the quarterdeck some minutes later and approached the sullen lieutenant. “I have advised the pilot of your request, Mr. Harke, and he will take the Swiftsure, the sloop at the next pier, back down to Hampton in a few hours, once it has been made ready. He knows her master and is certain the man will accommodate you and your men.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ramshaw.”

  “Before I retire to my cabin to pen a note to Captain Sterling, may I inform the gentlemen down there of your intention? They won’t stand down until they know it. I have business ashore, and they’ll press me for an answer.”

  Harke nodded assent. “But they won’t leave, either, will they?”

  Ramshaw shook his head. “Not until they see the stamps transferred to the Swiftsure and see her round the bend downriver.”

  “All right,” snapped the lieutenant.

  “Thank you, Mr. Harke.” Ramshaw left the quarterdeck. Harke braced himself and followed. He was in the middle of telling his crewmen what had been decided when a great cheer arose in the crowd at the foot of the pier. Muskets were fired into the air in celebration, and the Navy men heard a chorus of huzzahs. Harke turned briefly. He saw the leader and two of the other men from the delegation sitting on their horses. Many men in the crowd were turned towards them and waving their hats in salute of those men. Other people in the crowd were welcoming the passengers who had disembarked.