by Edward Cline
“Hear, hear!” replied Jack Frake quietly with a smile at his oldest friend.
“What a sad sentiment to wish on your countrymen,” Reverdy remarked in mild reproach.
Jack Frake leaned forward and said, “We do not wish it upon them, Reverdy. It is what must happen, in time.”
“And happen here first,” added Hugh. “And, if our countrymen are fortunate, there.”
The supper table of Meum Hall, cleared now of the finished main courses, was resplendent with some of the finest Delft and creamware table furniture and cutlery in the county, resting on a shimmering, oblong plane of thick, French-made linen. Candelabra, silver candlesticks, and wall sconces lit up the table, the room, and the company. In the precise middle of the table reigned the silver epergne that Hugh had used years before to explain and praise the British Empire. Its many-layered dishes were piled with sweetmeats, biscuits and fruit. Dessert consisted of slices of pineapple, peach and pear in a cream sauce and brandy-flavored wine cake. The wine itself was the best Bordeaux from Hugh’s cellar.
Captain Roger Tallmadge and Lieutenant William Manners sat together at the table. Around them sat the other guests: Rupert Beecroft and William Settle, of Meum Hall, and Obedience Robbins and William Hurry, of Morland Hall. Tallmadge said nothing in reply to the exclamations of Jack Frake, his friend Hugh, and John Proudlocks. He said very little at all; he merely smiled, and observed, and was happy that he knew such men. He would like to have seconded his hostess’s remark, but thought it wiser to keep his own counsel. Lieutenant Manners merely ate and appeared indifferent to the talk.
While the rest of Queen Anne County — indeed, while much of Virginia, at the behest of parish ministers and returning burgesses — observed the day with fasting, humiliation, and prayer in protest of the closing of the port of Boston, Hugh had decided to protest in his own manner, by celebrating the prosperity that was to be denied Boston.
Most of Williamsburg’s citizens had turned out to hear Speaker Peyton Randolph deliver a noontime address from the steps of the courthouse on Market Square. Then they followed him and his colleagues to Bruton Parish Church to hear a sermon delivered by the House chaplain, the Reverend Thomas Price. This person replaced Reverend Thomas Gwatkin, the principal of the grammar school at the College of William and Mary, who had declined the invitation by the House to endorse the protest with his own sermon. He was later to become Lady Dunmore’s personal chaplain, and ultimately leave with her in a pique of self-exile for England.
In the warm confines of Stepney Parish Church in Caxton, Reverend Albert Acland stood at his pulpit and delivered his prayers and sermon. He was pleased that so many of his flock had decided to attend this special service, even though he had opposed the idea. But Moses Corbin, mayor of Caxton, had appeared at his doorstep early yesterday morning and requested in a curiously insistent manner that he accede to the wishes of many in the county.
The minister today decided to be cautious but outspoken, and delivered a sermon that was not overtly hostile or critical of the day of fasting, prayer and humiliation. So many in his congregation agreed with the purpose of the observance. Also, he knew that many here today had heard of the confrontation between Etáin Frake and the Customsmen at Morland Hall two days before; word of the incident had spread throughout the town and outlying plantations and farms.
Today, instead of donning his vestments of office, he wore a plain cassock, to seem to personally reflect the spirit of the occasion. He read from two “thanksgivings” from the prayer book.
“Let us beseech our Savior to grant us peace and deliverance from our enemies, and to help us restore public peace at home. O Almighty God, who art a strong tower of defence unto thy servants against the face of their enemies! We acknowledge it thy goodness that we were not delivered over as a prey unto them. O Eternal God, who alone makes men to be of one mind in a house, and stillest the outrage of a violent and unruly people, we bless thy holy Name, that it hath pleased thee to appease the seditious tumults which have been lately raised up amongst us…. ”
Moses Corbin and his wife Jewel were not the only couple that exchanged discreet whispers that their pastor had mixed his texts from the prayer book. And many other parishioners seemed to frown in suspicion of whom he referred to as their enemies and unruly people.
Acland then turned to his sermon, and in it dwelt on the necessity of all present to accept a Lenten mode of sackcloth and ashes. He dared to equivocate between the Bostonians doing repentance for their “sins” and his parishioners doing penance for them.
“It is first noted in Genesis, chapter thirty-seven,” he said, “the willingness of men to grieve in that abrasive attire. Can we, many millennia removed from those times, do no less for our intransigent brethren to the north? For in praying, fasting and gratefully conceding our smallness and the vanity and meagerness of our hubris in the face of God’s will, we shall redeem our souls as well as theirs. Our prodigal brethren to the north, prompted by the designs of scepsical scoundrels, it seems will be reduced to sackcloth and ashes and beggary as the justice of a greater power. So, my friends, let us pray and fast today so that they may be welcomed again into His benevolent and forgiving embrace….”
In the course of his delivery, Acland noticed a face in the congregation he had never seen before. It was probably a traveler who had decided to attend the service. He thought, however, that the stranger looked incurious, and not particularly pious.
That person, sitting in a pew in the rear of the church, was Jared Hunt, who had journeyed on horseback up from Hampton to spy on the parties who had informed him of the necessity of searching Morland Hall. Acland was one of those informants. Hunt, listening to the pastor drone on, was satisfied that Acland was a “true patriot,” and could be used somehow in the future.
When the service was over, he was the first out the door. He did not wish to meet the minister, not now. He rode next to Cullis Hall. Here he introduced himself as a citizen of Williamsburg and an acquaintance of her son whom he had met during the late session of the General Assembly, and said that he had spoken with that esteemed person about some legal matter. He was informed by the mistress of that plantation that her husband and son were away. The woman offered him some tea, but he wisely declined and bid her good day.
When he rode back into Caxton and searched for a place in which to have a drink and a meal before he journeyed to Williamsburg to seek an audience with Governor Dunmore, he saw that all the taverns and inns were shut but one, the Gramatan Inn. Over a bottle of port there, he asked the young wench who served him why this establishment was open, and none of the others.
“It’s this day of starvin’ and mumblin’,” the woman said. “Mr. Gramatan said he’d have no part in it, it was treasonous and such, and wait ’til His Majesty hears of it, they’ll all get what for. His very words, but don’t say I said it.”
“What do you think of it?” asked Hunt.
The woman shrugged. “Makes me no never mind, sir,” she said. “I got five years left in my ’denture, and I don’t plan to starve or mumble much of that time. It’s none of my business, all this hootin’ and shoutin’ they do around here about rights and liberty! Well, I ain’t got either, and I ain’t goin’ to risk havin’ years added to my ’denture, you can wager on that!”
“Are you a felon, or a redemptioner? What’s your name?”
“I ain’t no convict! It’s Mary Griffin,” the woman retorted with flashing eyes, “and I bought me passage, if you please! From an agent in Cheapside, right there by the Guildhall, a fella who signed a whole bunch of us up for passage!”
He thought so. Her accent was too pronounced. Probably a true Cockney, if there was any truth in her protest, born and raised within earshot of the bells of St. Mary le Bow. There was no one else in the place except the barman, who was dozing for lack of custom. He asked her a few discreet questions about Jack Frake and Hugh Kenrick, and was rewarded with some derisive commentary on those gentlemen. Satisf
ied that those men enjoyed some disrepute in these parts, he ceased his queries, for he had pledged to draw the least amount of attention to himself on this expedition. He apologized unnecessarily for the presumption of her felonious status, and Mary Griffin left him to tend to his guinea hen roasting on a spit in the fireplace.
When he had finished his meal, he lingered for a while over another bottle of port and read some newspapers he took from the rack — Maryland and Virginia Gazettes, and even some old London papers — then left to reclaim his mount from the Inn stable hand, who had fed and watered the animal. He estimated that he should reach Williamsburg by dusk and be able to find a room there for the night.
* * *
The concert that evening at Meum Hall was an oddly subdued, almost dispirited affair. Etáin played her harp as beautifully as always, and Reverdy sang some arias from operas, among them Scarlatti’s “Pastoral on the Nativity” and Bononcini’s “The Glory of Loving You,” favorites of Hugh. Etáin ended the evening with Haydn’s “Serenade,” “Brian Boru’s March,” and “Hugh O’Donnell” — the latter for the host and hostess, who were soon to part for a long period of time. She was pleased to see them holding hands as they sat listening to her play that number. But, while all the performances were acknowledged with the appropriate applause, something was missing from the usual enthusiasm. Etáin thought that it was because everyone knew that this would perhaps be the last time they would sing and play together.
“That was a melancholy time,” remarked Jack Frake to Etáin as they rode back in a riding chair to Morland Hall after saying their goodnights late in the evening. Etáin’s harp was strapped to the back of the conveyance. Robbins and Hurry rode behind them. “The company was nearly funereal.”
“Mr. Tallmadge is departing with his friend tomorrow, and Reverdy perhaps in a week, when Mr. Geary returns from West Point. That must explain their own melancholy. But, ours?”
Jack Frake shook his head. “There will be no more concerts for a long while.”
“No,” sighed Etáin, “I suppose not.” After a moment, she said, “Mr. Proudlocks was in fine form tonight. I could see that Lieutenant Manners was biting his tongue.”
“Yes, John was in his best form.” Jack glanced at her once. “And you were in fine form yesterday. Would you have shot that Customsman if he had tried to force his way into our home?”
“Yes, of course.” After a moment, Etáin added, “I was afraid, Jack.”
“Of course, you were. So were Mr. Robbins and Mr. Hurry, and all our tenants, as well.” He reached over with one arm and held her shoulder. “You might have started the war ahead of time.”
Etáin grinned. “Yes. I might have, at that.” Then she frowned. “There will be a war, won’t there?”
“Yes. There will be a war.”
“Ahead of time? Is there a proper time to begin a war?”
Jack nodded once. “From what my friends up north have written, I’m not the only one who has collected a personal armory in expectation of one, and General Gage is on the alert to find those other collections and to rob us of the means of fighting a war.” He paused. “Somewhere, somehow, it will begin when the army moves to seize those means, and is opposed by another.”
“An army of men who have caught up with you, Jack.”
His hand had not left Etáin’s shoulder. He smiled and squeezed it once in silent confirmation. Her hand reached over and rested on top of the hand in his lap that held the reins.
* * *
“Well, elder brother, we bid adieu again,” said Captain Roger Tallmadge to Hugh.
“Adieu, not farewell,” answered the latter. “Remember that, younger brother.”
“Well, brother-in-law, we may meet again soon, and in London!” laughed Reverdy.
The officer stood with Lieutenant Manners in the front of the porch steps of the great house of Meum Hall. Their two mounts and the packhorse that carried their bags were held by a stable hand at a distance.
It was early morning and dew still glistened on the leaves of trees and on blades of grass. The four had just finished breakfast. The last hour had been filled with the minutiæ of preparing for the officers’ departure. The last minute instructions about the best routes to take northward — “Ride to the Pamunkey River, take a ferry across it to West Point, then another ferry across the Mattaponi,” Hugh had told him over breakfast, “or perhaps the simplest way, straight up the road to Richmond town from Williamsburg” — the filling of the officers’ canteens with water and the assembling of a basket of biscuits and dried fruit for them to take with them, the shoeing of one of the horses whose shoes had come loose, and silence-filling small talk, all disguised the dampening regret Hugh, Reverdy and Roger felt that they must part.
The breakfast had ended on a highlight, however, with an exchange of gifts. At the table, Roger presented Hugh with an inscribed copy of a book he had translated during his years at the Woolwich academy, Guillaume Le Blond’s “Treatise on Artillery” from his larger work, Elements of War, published in 1747. “You are not the only one to pen words,” he said to Hugh. “Please accept this, without it being an overture to the difficulties here.” He laughed. “Consider it a gift from Lieutenant Manners, as well. It is one less book for him to read during our journey!”
Hugh took the book and read the inscription inside: “For a friend who knows how to range his targets so as not to strike his friends. Capt. Roger Tallmadge, a friend forever.” It was followed by the day’s date.
“Thank you, Roger,” Hugh said. He handed the manual to Reverdy, then reached inside his coat and took out an object. “I have something for you, as well, sir. Your promotion.” He handed it over the table to his friend. “Our late mutual friend, Dogmael Jones, once held this rank.”
Roger took it with a slight gasp of surprise. It was a tin replica of an officer’s gorget, with a hemp cord to affix from around the neck. A crude inscription read: “A Paladin for Liberty.” Beneath it was a rough silhouette of a seated Britannia. Roger glanced up at Hugh with a pleased smile.
Hugh said, “I asked Bristol, one of my tenants, to fashion that the night of the incident at Morland Hall.”
Roger acknowledged the gift by immediately fitting the gorget over his head and around his neck.
Now, in the yard, he said to Reverdy, with a wan smile, “Perhaps we will meet in London.” He reached out and traded embraces and busses with her, then turned and firmly shook Hugh’s hand. “Let us not write a bad play scene here, my friends. We will be on our way.” He put on his hat. “Mr. Manners, are you ready?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the lieutenant.
Hugh said to the junior officer, “Mr. Manners, look after Captain Tallmadge here, and do not let anything untoward happen to him.”
The lieutenant grinned. “That has been one of my constant tasks throughout this journey, Mr. Kenrick. Yes, I will look after him.” He nodded once each to his host and hostess, then turned and strode to his mount.
As Roger was about to turn and follow, Hugh said, “Roger.”
The captain stopped. “Yes, Hugh?”
“Make certain that when you have reported to General Gage and finished with your business, you find yourself passage home.”
Tallmadge saw the seriousness in Hugh’s eyes, and knew what he meant. He nodded again. “Without a doubt, that is what I shall certainly see to. Goodbye.”
Tallmadge lifted himself onto his mount, and bid Lieutenant Manners to lead the way out. He turned once in the saddle and fingered the gorget. “I shall sport this for the remainder of our journey. If anyone questions me about it,” he said with a grin, “I shall ask him to peer closer and see that it is self-evident.” Then he reined his mount around and followed Lieutenant Manners out of the yard.
Hugh and Reverdy exchanged lingering waves with their friend until they could no longer see him in the foliage that bordered Meum Hall. Hugh put an arm around Reverdy’s waist, and they leaned slightly against each other. “Ove
r the hills, and far away, he goes,” said Hugh wistfully.
Reverdy thought, but did not say, “I shall soon follow, my love.” She was remembering the day, so many years ago at the Parade Grounds near Whitehall in London, when Hugh had pointed to his forehead: A mind can accrue honor, too, and carry its own colors, he said then. I am an ensign in our country’s most important standing army — for how secure can a country be without its thinkers?
And you wear a gorget of intellect and integrity, she thought. But a war of thinkers was so very different from the one that is looming now over our lives, so very and so safely apart from everything else. And your words have helped to bring about what I witnessed at Morland Hall. Your words have wrought something I haven’t the courage to face. Forgive me, but I haven’t Etáin’s mettle.
* * *
Two days later the Sparrowhawk came down the York River and tied up at the Caxton pier. Captain Elyot Geary planned to depart again in another day once he had loaded waiting cargoes of lumber and oats into the vessel’s hold.
By then, everything that Reverdy had planned to take with her to England had been packed into trunks and even into a few cases marked “Brune-Kenrick, Danvers, Dorset.” It was all carted down to the pier to be loaded and put into the hold with other baggage.
The next morning, after some tearful goodbyes and best wishes between Reverdy and the staff of Meum Hall, Hugh drove her and Dilch in a carriage to Morland, where Reverdy exchanged farewells with Jack Frake and Etáin. When they passed Meum Hall again on their way to the pier, Reverdy watched the great house with some sorrow in her expression as they passed by.
Dilch carried two canvas bags stuffed with her clothes, a few books, and other necessities.
At the pier, Hugh accompanied them aboard the vessel, and was amused to see that Captain Geary had assigned her the same tiny cabin that he had occupied when he first came to the colonies on the Sparrowhawk with Captain Ramshaw years ago. He could not help but remark on the irony of it to Reverdy. “What a fickle vessel she is.”
