by Edward Cline
Rockets rose elsewhere over the river, their explosions audible seconds after their multicolored stars had died. Otis Talbot said, “Look, sir. It seems that Caxton is not alone in this celebration.”
But Hugh Kenrick did not hear. He was, emotionally, back in Green Park, London, many years ago, where he had witnessed a display more spectacular than this, while a great orchestra played an overture that matched the brilliance of that display. The memory of that night was as fleeting as one of the rockets’ stars, and was not what caused him to stand with his head uplifted, insensible to his companion’s words and to the cheers of the other guests. The sight of the fireworks acted as a catalyst that allowed him now, as it did those many years ago, to reach an evaluation, a conclusion, and a decision.
“ Meum Atrium,” he said out loud.
“Excuse me, sir?” said Otis Talbot.
Hugh glanced at his companion, as though noticing him for the first
time. “That is what I shall call the place,” he said, as though explaining the obvious. “Meum Atrium…my hall…. Meus…mine….”
Talbot sighed with relief. “I see. Then…you have decided?”
“Yes. Meum Atrium. Meum Hall.”
The agent smiled. “It will be a rather confounding name for persons not well-read in Latin, sir.”
Hugh shrugged. “They have only to ask, when the time comes.”
“Shall I inform Mr. Stannard and Mr. McRae?”
“No, Mr. Talbot. Not now. I doubt that they would be able to contain their joy at the news. The confidence they have thus far kept would be overtested. No. We will let them know tomorrow morning, at the breakfast. I want no scenes here tonight.” He paused. “This is a private matter.” Hugh smiled at his companion. It was a happy, proud, and contented smile — a smile of finality.
“As you wish, Mr. Kenrick,” said Talbot.
The last salvo of rockets whooshed into the sky, and in a rapid succession of deafening bursts painted a dazzling galaxy of man-made stars.
* * *
“I invite you gentlemen to reflect on all the troubles that have festered between the Crown and the colonies since the beginning of this war: the innumerable outrages of impressments of seamen by the Navy in our ports and on our own ships at sea; the embargoes on our trade by that Navy; the quartering of troops in private homes; the interminable quarrels between regular and colonial officers in the field; the coercive methods of recruitment of American men for the regular army, and the abusive treatment of our militia by its officers.” The speaker paused, then said, “I ask you to reflect on those matters, and then ask yourselves why you find reason to celebrate.”
It was two o’clock in the morning. The air in Reece Vishonn’s gaming room was pungent with the smoke of several pipes. The muted notes of a galliard seeped through the room’s thick double doors. About a dozen men were present. One guest was sound asleep on a couch. Four other men were playing a brisk game of faro at one of the tables. Two more were engrossed in a round of billiards. Six were stretched comfortably in armchairs around the fireplace. Most of the men, weighed down by food, drink, the exercise of dance, and the late hour, were only hazily conscious of their surroundings and company.
Until they heard these words, spoken in answer to an innocuous question asked in expectation of an innocuous answer. Then half-shut eyes opened, heads jerked up, and cards stopped slapping on the table. The billiards players broke their study of the lay of the balls on the green baize to stare at the speaker.
Jack Frake, pipe in hand, stood casually in a corner near the fireplace and glanced at each of the faces now turned to him, waiting for a reply. Tonight he had joined in a country-dance, something no one in Caxton could remember him ever having done before. Tonight he was uncharacteristically sociable, and listened to other guests’ small talk and gossip. Tonight he requested that Etáin McRae play “Westering,” and her rendition of it melted the reserve of even those women who disapproved of her pose. Tonight he watched the fireworks with the other guests, and complimented the host on the lavishness of his hospitality. Tonight, Jack Frake had not been the gruff, distant, self-absorbed man they all knew so well.
Reece Vishonn, seated in a chair across the fireplace from him, narrowed his eyes in thought as he scrutinized Jack Frake’s austere face. Then he said, “I concede the animosities, sir. What man here wouldn’t? But I — and I’m certain that many of us here think as I do — I ascribe them to the careful efforts of a generous parent attempting to perform a kindness for an ungrateful child. Soon the rebuffed parent resorts to impatience and arrogance, and the child to peevishness and parsimonious feeling.” He shook his head once. “When peace returns, sir, we’ll have no more of those problems.”
“It is a stressful time,” remarked Ralph Cullis. “Tempers have flared. Obligations have been shirked. People say things they don’t mean, and commit actions they later regret.”
Reverend Albert Acland said, “Yes, sir. There have been animosities, and altercations, and ill-feeling between His Majesty’s forces and our own. But, for all that, it is a time to be thankful, and to celebrate.”
Most of the other men grunted or nodded in agreement. Jack Frake took a draught from his pipe, then said, “I see that the past will not guide you, gentlemen, as it should. Consider these questions, then: What will a Crown victory mean for the colonies? If it no longer has a rival on this continent, what might the Crown, or Parliament, plan with greater ease for our futures? Would it need to placate us to secure our support, something it has done with only the greatest reluctance? Or will it feel free to dictate to us in order to secure our slavery? What are the Crown’s ends, and what might be its means? Why has the Crown fought so mightily for this continent? Will it ask us to pay for our liberties? Are we represented in Parliament, where at least a man might rise for us and accost the ministry’s and membership’s policies? Are we as ‘libertied’ as we believe?”
When he saw nothing but closed, almost condescendingly tolerant faces before him, Jack Frake exclaimed, “For God’s sake, gentlemen, our own House” — here he paused to glance at Edgar Cullis and William Granby, the burgesses — “our own House sets the prices the taverns and ordinaries may charge their patrons, and regulates the production of our tobacco!” He paused again. “Governor Fauquier may assent to any bill or law passed by the Council and House in Williamsburg, but you and I know that for such a law to have full force, it must have the King’s assent, signature and seal as well — after first being approved by his Privy Council. Years can pass before we learn that a law has been disallowed, and when it has been disallowed, the courts become choked with suits for recovery of damages and costs for having obeyed a disallowed law. His Excellency the Governor may be the most reasonable and benevolent man, but his first allegiance would be neither to his reason, nor to his good will, but to the Crown.”
Edgar Cullis shot from his chair. “That is a dastardly thing to say about the man!” he exclaimed.
Jack Frake looked incredulous, but smiled. He leaned closer to Cullis and said, “I heard you express that exact sentiment a week ago, sir. You meant approval of it. I do not.”
“You asperse the Crown!” accused the father, Ralph Cullis, pointing a finger. His son resumed his seat next to him.
“A contemptible sentiment!” said Ira Granby.
“Near treason!” grumbled Reverend Acland.
“Near treason, sir?” asked Jack Frake. “Or near the truth?” He faced a dozen sets of hostile eyes and smiled. “Mr. Cullis,” he said, addressing the young burgess, “the next time you are engaged in cards with His Excellency at the Palace in the coming session, ask him where is the true home of his loyalties.”
Edgar Cullis gasped, then sniffed. “I would not dare, sir. That would be…offensive to his person and station.”
“I contest the false conflict you present, Mr. Frake,” said Ira Granby. “It would be treason if the Governor heeded his reason, and disobeyed the Crown. Reason must necessarily def
er in fealty to Crown imperatives.”
“Just as it must defer in faith to God’s will,” Acland said. He cast a sly glance at Jack Frake. He seemed to be the only man present who was neither surprised nor disappointed by Jack Frake’s change in manner.
Jack Frake said with frosty courtesy, “If you gentlemen are correct, then his reason is as superfluous an appendage to his good character, as his peruke is to his head, and cannot be relied upon to defend you in any grave matter concerning the Crown.”
Reverend Acland set down his teacup and saucer on the table at his elbow. “I do believe, sir, that the Indian war club that gave you that scar, also addled your brains.”
All the men stared in disbelief at the minister. Jack Frake smiled again. “I will say this much for that Ottawa, sir: That he met me in combat, knowing the risks, and died like a man. He did not hide behind holy orders and hurl insults at me, knowing that he did not risk being challenged to a duel.”
The minister’s face grew livid and he rose from his chair.
Reece Vishonn also stood up. “Now, now, gentlemen!” he blurted. “This…raillery is improper…on such an occasion.” He turned to Acland. “Sir, will you please apologize to Mr. Frake?”
Reverend Acland clenched his fists and stood stiffly. “I will not, sir! I have always known that this man is not of my flock! If he had not declined to join it, I would have cut him from it myself with a fowling piece! There is a disease about him, like the cattle that pass through here from Carolina and infect our own herds!” Without a further word, he turned and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.
For a moment, no one said anything. In time, Henry Otway remarked, “Well, what do you think of that, gentlemen?”
Ira Granby suggested, “One too many journeys to the punch bowl.”
Reece Vishonn sighed and turned to Jack Frake. “Sir, please accept my apologies for the reverend’s…behavior. I cannot explain what prompted him to say so…rascally a thing.”
Jack Frake shook his head. “I can, Mr. Vishonn. But, what he and I think of each other, is not the subject I wish to discuss. Your apology is not necessary.”
Vishonn nodded, and took his seat again. Not a word was spoken for the next few minutes.
Then Edgar Cullis ventured, “You are wrong about the fate of our laws, Mr. Frake.”
“Am I?” Jack Frake said. “Is not Reverend Camm expected to return from London with the news that the Privy Council has disallowed last year’s Act, the Two-Penny Act, which governs the churchmen’s salaries here? Depend on it, Mr. Camm and his colleagues will waste little time lodging suits against their parishes in the General Court on the basis of that likely ruling.”
“He may have already lodged it,” remarked Mr. Stannard. “I heard some captain remark on his having landed at Hampton a day or so ago.”
“Now,” Jack Frake continued, “if he loses his suit in the General Court here, what guarantee have we that he will not again plead to the Council, and succeed in having our own court’s decision overruled and voided? By all accounts, he is as determined to be paid by his parish as the Council is determined to prescribe our laws.”
Thomas Reisdale stirred in his chair. “You know, gentlemen,” he said after a moment, “I must admit that Mr. Frake is right. The first disallowance has the effect of placing all Virginia law in a state of limbo. You see, it does not merely concern ministers’ salaries. The Crown will uphold our laws, if they please it, and void them, if they please not. The king’s protection, so often cited by our few champions, is illusory.”
Reece Vishonn shook his head. “No, sir,” he protested. “I won’t hear of it! Our excellent constitution will not allow that to come about.” He glanced at Jack Frake. “And, please excuse it, sir, but I don’t believe either that it would allow any of your dark imaginings to come about.”
Jack shrugged. “For myself, sirs, I have stopped counting on the sundog of our excellent constitution.”
“But are we not Englishmen?” asked Henry Otway. “Do we not, as Crown subjects, inherit the protection of the constitution and the king?”
“The full protection of the constitution is not afforded the colonies,” Jack Frake said. “We are, it is true, Crown subjects, but, in the eyes of Parliament and the king’s ministers, and the king himself, not wholly Englishmen. We either left England’s shores, or were born beyond them. We are, in the scheme of things, but glorified factotums.” He paused. “The laws and liberties enjoyed by the inhabitants of Cornwall are more sacrosanct than any enjoyed in the colonies here. We exist, in the Crown’s view, not for ourselves, but on sufferance, for the pleasure and convenience of the Crown. Mr. Reisdale has caught my point. The king’s protection is illusory. If we enjoy any latitude in liberty, it is only because we have the advantage of distance and time.”
“Well put, sir,” Reisdale said. “Our remove from the mother country is a pitiful protection of our liberties. Reverend Camm has proven that.”
One of the billiard players groaned with impatience. “Why do you belabor these speculative matters, sir?” he asked Jack Frake. “We are here to enjoy the company and a modicum of diversion.”
“Yes,” chimed one of the card game players. “Damn it all, we’ll get politics and speechifying enough, once the new session convenes next month!”
Some of the men laughed. Henry Otway gestured to William Granby and Edgar Cullis. “Here, Mr. Frake, are the men who will apprise us of any evil-doings cooked by the Crown. They are the Roman geese we have elected to so warn us.”
Jack shrugged again. “I have merely pointed out an oversight, gentlemen. I am certain that times lie ahead when you will be moved to think ahead, and not be content with the prosaic concerns of the present. You will wonder then why the obvious was not so clear to you in the past, and, if you are honest with yourselves, you will conclude that you did not choose to see it.”
He spoke the words in a dry, almost impersonal manner, not intending any offense. But most of the men looked away from him. A few stared at him with a hostility that matched Reverend Acland’s. He realized that he had delivered a personal wound to each of them, and that none of the affronted men would continue the conversation. The billiards players turned and resumed their game; the dealer in the faro game reshuffled his cards. A few men rose, walked to the table that held bottles of liquor, and stood with their backs to him.
Only Mr. Reisdale regarded him with sympathy and understanding. Reece Vishonn managed to appear embarrassed with his guests’ behavior.
Jack Frake nodded acknowledgment to Mr. Reisdale, then went to the fireplace, emptied the embers of his pipe into the flames, and walked to the double doors. He turned and addressed the men once more. “Good evening, sirs. I leave you with your peevishness and parsimonious feelings.”
There was no answer. As he turned and touched the handles of the door, someone in a darkened corner rose from a chair and approached him. It was Hugh Kenrick. “My compliments, Mr. Frake,” he said. “Only in Parliament have I seen such resolve cause so acrimonious a division.”
Jack Frake smiled, opened the doors, and stepped into the breezeway that separated the gaming room from the ballroom. Hugh Kenrick followed him. Jack Frake closed the doors and turned to the younger man. “You are Hugh Kenrick. You were pointed out to me earlier.”
Hugh offered his hand. “As were you to me, sir.”
Jack took the proffered hand and shook it. He said, “It is unfortunate, Mr. Kenrick, that no colonial member of that body will ever have a chance to participate in such a division.”
“Not as a colonial,” answered Hugh. “I know of no factotum who has a voice in the disposal of his master’s budget or in the propriety of his diversions.” He paused. “You are right to concern yourself with the future. I have seen and heard it myself, in London. I am better acquainted with Mr. Pitt than I am with the Lieutenant-Governor here. He, too, as you remarked, must be a man of divided sympathies and loyalties.”
“Divide
d,” asked Jack, “or divisive?”
Hugh smiled. “I stand corrected, sir.”
Jack laughed. “Why did you not speak up a few moments ago, Mr. Kenrick?”
“I am a guest here, and an outsider. And, to speak frankly, I enjoyed listening to you address the matter.” Hugh grinned. “I came in with Mr. McRae to rest from the ball. Mr. McRae stretched out on one of the divans. You came in afterward. He missed a clash of Titans.” After a short pause, he corrected himself. “Well, at least the triumph of one, and the flight of a gnome.”
“You have seen Brougham Hall, Mr. Kenrick,” Jack said. “Will you purchase it?”
“Yes,” Hugh said. “But, please keep that a secret. I want no fuss made about it.” He frowned. “Why does that minister hate you?”
Jack shrugged. “I would say that it is because I refuse to waste my time sitting in his church listening to his indifferent sermons. But, that cannot be the whole reason. I can neither fathom his hatred of me, nor much concern myself with it.”
“I shall make a point of causing him to hate me, as well, once I have settled in.”
Jack shook his head. “I do not think he will need your assistance, sir.”
Hugh nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment. He was bursting with the desire to question the man about Hyperborea, and about the Skelly gang, and how he came by the scar on his forehead. But he knew that this was neither the time nor the place to ask such questions. Instead, he said, “I sailed with Captain Ramshaw in the Sparrowhawk to Philadelphia, Mr. Frake. He told me much about you.”
Jack frowned. “Why would he have told you about me?”
“Because I have read Hyperborea.”
Jack blinked in surprise. After a moment, he said, “We seem to have so many things in common, Mr. Kenrick. Perhaps we will be good neighbors.”
“You must tell me the story of your association with that book, some day,” Hugh said. He paused, then added, “As you are the last of the Skelly gang, I am the last of the Society of the Pippin.”
