War

by Edward Cline

  Cullis replied, “Mr. Ira Granby died about three years ago. His wife, Damaris, is being courted by a gentleman from Williamsburg, whose eye covets Granby Hall more than the widow, to my mind. William Granby, the son, married my sister, Eleanor. They reside in Gloucester. Their daughter, Selina, married Mr. Vishonn’s son, James. They have a place in Surry. I expect they will all soon congregate here for Mr. Vishonn’s funeral, such as it might be, there no longer being a pastor.”

  Cullis sipped his ale, and shook his head. “They none of them fit much into the situation here, Mr. Hunt. They are decidedly without opinion.” He smiled. “However, William Granby was once my fellow burgess. When he gave up the seat, it was filled by Mr. Kenrick, who has kept it ever since.” He chuckled darkly. “I regret the day I ever pressed him to stand for the seat. For if there is a situation here, Mr. Hunt, he is the person most responsible for it.” He smiled again, pointedly, for the conversation had turned in the right direction. “If it were not for him, and the treasonous Resolves he supported against my advice, perhaps there would be no… situation.” He raised a hand and gestured vaguely to Queen Anne Street outside.

  “I don’t doubt that, sir. I have heard the most odious and blotting things about him,” remarked Hunt. He knew, from his informants, that Cullis and Hugh Kenrick had once been friends. But Cullis was bitter, and he knew that embittered men had a reputation for being very cooperative in the matter of turning on friends and colleagues. It was a trait he appreciated and had often taken advantage of in service to his father. “Well, it may please you to know that I have an object lesson in mind for that chap, as well. I hope you may tarry long enough here to witness it.”

  “When, and how?” Cullis asked, not quite disguising his eagerness.

  Hunt grinned, shook his head, and put a playful finger to his lips. “My secret, sir! My privilege!”

  Cullis wrapped his hands around his tankard. “I do not know the character of your informants, sir, but they could hardly have told you odious and blotting things about Mr. Kenrick. Perhaps they confuse spite with sound appraisal, and misinformed you. He is without opprobrium or stain. That has been his danger, and the key to his influence, from the first moment I met him.”

  Cullis took a draught from his ale. “He and Mr. Frake are of the same stamp, mind you, and closer friends than I have ever observed. I rode to Morland this evening, to see the justice you meted out to the renegade. You may take it as a measure of the success of your justice that many townsmen here are shaking in their boots, and have put their resentments aside.” Cullis looked across the room at the comely figure of Mary Griffin. “Should you decide to deal Mr. Kenrick the same justice, I believe the town and county will be yours, and His Majesty will be in your debt.”

  Hunt nearly blurted out the question, “He was a friend of yours, once?” but checked himself in time. Instead, he collapsed back in his chair, slightly stunned by both the confession and the callowness with which it was made. It rivaled his own hard-nosed manner. For the first time ever since he learned of his father’s malice-driven obsession with Hugh Kenrick, and was despatched here to quench it, even now in his slightly inebriated state, he understood clearly the root of that obsession. Suddenly he was not comfortable with his purpose. It was too much like the matter of Dogmael Jones, whose demise he had arranged years ago. He had, much against his will, developed a grudging admiration for that man for the flagrant way he had defied the power of Parliament. An admiration that was a secret envy. He had consoled himself with the notion that the world was too corrupt for such admirable men, and good riddance to them, they ought to be grateful they can leave it.

  He wished now that Cullis had not told him anything about Hugh Kenrick. He was no longer comfortable in the company of the man. There was an element of his father the Earl in the lawyer, except that this man was different. He had fallen from his own grace, whereas Hunt knew that neither he nor his father the Earl had ever attained any. He could deal with such “graceless” men as equals, and share their outlook on the world without guilt or reproach by them or himself. But some natural, ineluctable revulsion for Cullis welled up in Hunt. It was contempt. He was uncomfortable with that appraisal, as well. It was not practical.

  Hunt took a last swallow of his ale, then put down the tankard and slapped his hands flat on the table. “Well, sir!” he said. “I must retire! Busy day ahead of me! And I am sure you have packing to do and such, settling business and ridding yourself of friends, if you are quitting Virginia.” He rose and patted Cullis twice on the shoulder. “Good night to you, Mr. Cullis. And thank you for the information.” He nodded to his Customs subordinates to follow suit, and turned and made his way through the tavern to the steps that led to the rooms upstairs.

  Edgar Cullis abruptly found himself alone at the table, feeling again the angry humiliation of having been treated like a dependable and loyal dog. He stared into his ale, and wondered if he did not deserve it. But it was too late. He knew he could soften the feeling by drowning the regret in drink. He waved to Mary Griffin for another tankard.

  * * *

  Jared Hunt paced for a while in the tiny confines of his private room above the tavern, thinking furiously, and recovering from the unsavory emotions he had felt downstairs. Until Cullis had divulged where Jack Frake might be found, he had had no definite plan to deal with either him or Hugh Kenrick. But now an idea was germinating in his mind. He left his room and invited himself to Major Ragsdale’s own private billet down the hallway to discuss the matter.

  Chapter 18: The Arrest

  Only two walls of the Otway great house remained standing, and most of the other out buildings had been leveled into piles of rubble that were now sprouting chickweed, horsetails, and poplar saplings.

  The smithy stood on slightly higher ground than did the other structures, far from the great house, and had not been inundated or weakened when the York was driven by winds to overrun its banks and flood the rest of the low-lying grounds. It had housed most of the ordnance and arms that Jack Frake had hidden. That very evening, the smithy was occupied by men, some who talked, and some who labored.

  “How many of them can we make?”

  “About a dozen.”

  “And our powder?”

  “We have perhaps enough to fire six, if we leave enough to fire the other guns.”

  “Yes. Don’t forget the swivel gun, and the long-gun. We’ll need them all.”

  “The marines might attack us from the east and south, from across the Hove Stream.”

  “The pickets will warn us of their approach. And I’m certain the marines will come. Someone in Caxton is sure to remember this place.”

  “It is a whole battalion, sir, and we’ve barely half a company left.”

  “That major of theirs, he’s quick and sharp. Took us by surprise in town.”

  “Some of their officers will learn from the mistakes of others.”

  “Why must we destroy the Sparrowhawk?”

  “To deny the Crown her use as a warship, against us, against everyone. Remember, she was originally built as a warship, and if Hunt has kept only half her former crew, she would still be formidable.”

  “Could we not raid the Basilisk, sir? We could not sail it — none of us knows the first thing about it — but we could damage it or even sink it.”

  The captain shook his head. “There are more men in its crew than we have men here, Jock. Besides, marines guard the pier.” He shook his head again. “No, the Sparrowhawk will come here. I am sure of it. We are Mr. Hunt’s unfinished business.”

  Jock Fraser looked disappointed. He did not like waiting for an enemy.

  Jack Frake added, “If the marines had not done it first, Mr. Fraser, I would have put the torch to my own fields, to deny the Crown any value in it should they have decided to harvest the crops and send them to England.”

  Jack Frake, Jock Fraser, and John Proudlocks stood together in the smithy, their faces lit by flambeaux and by the fire in the st
oked oven. Henry Buckle from Sachem Hall, and Aymer Crompton and Isaac Zimmerman from Morland were laboring over a bellows and forge, fashioning with hammers and tongs iron straps from metal debris found on the grounds. They were making the elements of carcasses.

  Jack Frake was certain that either the Basilisk, or the Sparrowhawk, or both vessels, would come upriver to attack him and his men. He reasoned that the Basilisk, a sloop, would anchor in the shallow inlet west of the Otway place, and the Sparrowhawk on the river itself. His men were placing the swivel gun and the long-gun at the western edge of the property, close to the water, to counter the Basilisk. The wheeled cannon he and his men had taken from Sheriff Tippet’s lawn months ago was being fixed to face the river and the Sparrowhawk. It was this gun that would attempt to disable the merchantman with the carcasses. Tied to bushes on the inlet were three boats that Jack Frake and some of his men had paddled upriver. They would allow the Company to escape, when the time came.

  The men worked far into the night, preparing for the next day.

  * * *

  The next morning was bright and cloudless. It had not rained in weeks, and Hugh Kenrick wondered how long the drought would last. He was having breakfast when Spears appeared in the supper room. “Sir, there are men here to see you,” he announced ominously.

  “Who?”

  “That Customs man, sir. He came with one of his own men. And there is an officer with some of those marines from town.”

  He waits no longer, thought Hugh. “Show Mr. Hunt only into the study, Spears.” Hugh paused. “Is Hulton about?”

  “He is preparing to have a bite in the kitchen, sir, and then he said he will assist Mr. Zouch in the brickworks.”

  “Fetch him first, Spears, and take him to the study. Tell him to hide beneath the desk. The space there is commodious enough for two men. Tell him that Mr. Hunt and I will have words, and I shall want a witness. Tell him to take pains not to let his presence known to me or to Mr. Hunt.”

  Spears looked puzzled. “Go on, Spears,” said Hugh. “It will be all right. When Hulton is ready, then you may show Mr. Hunt in. I will not be far behind.”

  “Yes, sir.” Spears turned and left the room to follow his employer’s curious instructions.

  Moments later, Hugh heard Spears admit Hunt and another man into the breezeway. He rose and went out. Hunt paused when Hugh emerged from the supper room. Hugh stopped and cordially indicated the open door of the study. Spears, standing behind the Customs men, stared blankly at Hugh and gave an imperceptible nod. The men went inside. Spears closed the door behind them.

  Hugh gestured to the chairs in front of his desk, and went to sit behind it. He pulled back his own chair, sat down, crossed his legs, and leaned back as though he were receiving a call from a good friend. “Well, Mr. Hunt. What is your business here?” The fingers of one hand rested on the desk, patiently toying with the brass top that was always there. He glanced out the window. Two more Customs men stood beside their mounts. There were three other saddles. One, he supposed, for Mr. Hunt, one for the sour-faced man with him, and a third. A marine lieutenant and ten of his men lounged at the foot of the path leading to the porch.

  “Beautiful morning, Mr. Kenrick,” answered Hunt as he made himself comfortable. “I was almost tempted to walk the distance from town. But, Mr. Gramatan availed me of his fine stable. Oh, forgive me. This is Mr. Blassard, also of the Customs. He is a necessary appendage to my business.”

  The man called Blassard sat next to Hunt. He shifted his coat to reveal a pistol wedged into one of his pockets. Hunt then said to his companion, “Mr. Blassard, you will please wait just outside the door. I have confidential matters to discuss with our host. But be ready to enter at your own discretion, if need be.”

  The silent Blassard rose and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Hunt grinned and slapped his hands on his knees. “First, a confession, Mr. Kenrick. We are cousins, of a sort,” said Hunt. “I am the son of your father’s brother, though I do not boast the same surname.” He smiled. “To amend some Bible talk, I am a sin of a father visited upon the son of a brother! Very confusing matter, don’t you think?” He was pleased to see the look of surprise on Hugh Kenrick’s face. “Turley is my true surname. After my mother. A servant girl, expelled from Danvers.”

  After a moment, Hugh replied, “I remember the story. That explains much about you.”

  “Explains much? Explain that, if you please, sir.”

  Hugh shook his head. “What is your business here, Mr. Hunt?”

  “My business? It is this: You and I shall leave these wretched shores for England, never to return. Lucre and other rewards await me there, by grace of your generous uncle. As for you, you will stand trial for treason. And perhaps be rewarded with the king’s pardon or leniency, and enjoy the mercy of a man whose character you have so recklessly besmirched for so long. I do not know His Majesty, however, so I cannot guarantee such a felicitous end. But, I know your career, and all England shall know it, as well.”

  Hugh was unmoved. He said, “You murdered Dogmael Jones.”

  This time it was Hunt’s turn to be surprised, and his glibness was temporarily stalled. He stared dumbly at the man, wondering how he could know such a thing. He had no knowledge of Hugh’s father’s suspicions, or of John Proudlocks’s observations of him, both in London and at Meum Hall last summer. After a moment, he managed to reply gravely, “Sir, I do not know this person of whom you speak. Nor can I be expected to be appreciative of your accusation.”

  “I know your career, as well. You were my uncle’s secretary, were you not? Do not deny it. I have reliable witnesses.”

  Hunt cocked his head in concession. “I admit the role of secretary, sir, but to nothing else. Your charge is hurting.” He scrutinized Hugh Kenrick with new and worried interest. The man had idly taken up a pencil and was scribbling something on a sheet of paper. The man seemed bored.

  Then Hunt recovered the momentum of his initiative, and said instead, “You are a prize, sir, and I shall take you back to England to stand trial for treason. Have I evidence to substantiate that charge? Ample and abundant!” He rose and paced back and forth before his quarry. “You speak of witnesses! Of course, there will be my testimony concerning the incident at Morland Hall, when you drew your sword against me, and discouraged my colleagues and me in the performance of our lawful duty. My father possesses pamphlets and other printed matter of which you are the author. There is a regaling account in one of the Gazettes here of your role in obstructing the law and Crown officers in their duty, when they tried to bring in legal stamps to the General Court some years ago. A ragged copy of the Courier contains a lengthy item about the Resolves of the same period, and extols them and your role in their passage in the late General Assembly.”

  Hunt paused and waited for a response from his host. None came. He glanced at Hugh. He had just dropped the pencil and was reading what he had written. There was a smile on the man’s face. The Customs man continued. “It may please you to know that the newspapers were submitted to me by a fellow citizen of yours, Mr. Gramatan, and a former friend of yours, Mr. Cullis. I did not tell them how I planned to use the documents, and they have likely forgotten them, some time ago. In addition, I have collected many affidavits from leading citizens here concerning your character and actions.” He permitted himself a smile. “All these things shall be laid before a magistrate and a jury.”

  Hugh glanced up. “What is the alternative if I choose not to accompany you?”

  “The alternative? I will have you shot, if your resistance permits it, and I will be obliged to send a regretful report to my father. Otherwise, you shall be forcibly removed, injured or not.” Hunt paused. “Did I mention that this is a kind of arrangement? You see, I know the whereabouts of Mr. Frake and his men. At the Otway place, just west of his own ruined kingdom. And here is my proposal: If you come peaceably, I will spare him, and sail away. However, with the Sparrowhawk and the Basilisk, tog
ether with Major Ragsdale’s men, Mr. Frake can be surrounded and annihilated. You saw what the Sparrowhawk can do to a property, and how efficient Major Ragsdale’s men can be. Once I signal that strategy to commence, there will be no stopping it. The choice is your own.”

  Then Hunt took a quick step forward and snatched up the paper that Hugh had written on. He clucked his tongue and wagged an admonishing finger at his host. He held the paper up to the light, and read it out loud: “I am Prince Alfred, and Mr. Hunt, Meleger, captain of the seven deadly sins. Actually, of only three: Envy, gluttony, and sloth. The remaining four — pride, lust, greed, and wrath — I would pare from that list — their sinfulness being open to Pippinish scrutiny — so that the number of deadly sins is not so daunting and magical. And, strangely, Mr. Hunt is neither ghostly nor gaunt, as Meleger is. I shall lift him from the earth, embrace the life from him, and he shall thereby vanish, and the world will be done with him.”

  “What educated folderol!” exclaimed Hunt with a laugh. He crushed the paper into a ball and tossed it into a corner. “I can see that you are capable of jollity!” Then he stood stiffly, and called out to Mr. Blassard. The man came in, holding the pistol. Hunt gestured with an open palm toward the door. “Shall we go, Mr. Kenrick? In the name of His Majesty, you are arrested.”

  Hugh Kenrick knew that if he resisted, he would be shot, or overpowered. If that happened, there was no predicting how the marines outside would react. He did not want to risk their accosting his staff or tenants. Both men looked strong and able and he did not doubt their strength or determination. He sighed, glanced once at pictures on the wall opposite, picked up his hat from a side of the desk, and stepped around to walk to the door. Then he paused. “Do you plan to sail the Sparrowhawk to England, Mr. Hunt?”

  “Of course, sir,” Hunt answered, startled by the question. “It is Revenue property now, and is a prize of another kind. And its new master is eager to return, as well. Why do you ask?”