by Edward Cline
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.”
“No,” Reverdy answered. “It’s the same one I occupied when I came here with James. He had to settle for a hammock the whole voyage.”
“I didn’t know.”
Reverdy sat in the cabin’s only chair, while Hugh leaned against the tiny table, and they chatted for a while. Dilch sat on a trunk, listened, and did not interfere. At one point, Hugh turned to her. “Miss Dilch, you will take care to see that your mistress comes to no harm, and that you come to no harm yourself.”
“Yes, Mr. Kenrick,” said the woman. Hugh knew that she felt free to travel to England. Her mother had died years ago, and she had no other relatives here to concern herself about.
He rose, smiled, and bowed before her. “You are a princess, madam.” Then he took one of her hands and kissed it.
Dilch smiled in return. “And you are a prince, sir. But, mind you not to behave like Hamlet to milady here,” she added, nodding to Reverdy, “or I’ll give you a piece of my mind! She is no Ophelia!”
Hugh knew that she had read the play. “Hamlet? No,” he replied, laughing. “I shall endeavor to emulate Prince Hal!”
The bursar appeared then and informed them that Captain Geary and the pilot were ready to push off. Dilch rose and left the cabin for the deck above, knowing that the couple wanted a last moment alone together.
Hugh crushed Reverdy to him and kissed her long and passionately. For a moment, they were lost to time. Then the sounds of hurried footsteps above them reminded them of where they were. They let each other go, and left the cabin to ascend to the desk. At a place near the shrouds, Hugh passed a lingering palm over Reverdy’s face, then turned and spoke with Captain Geary for a moment. The captain assured him that he would take every care to ensure Reverdy’s comfort. Hugh said, “Well, we’ll see each other again, perhaps in the fall. You’re welcome to stay with me, of course. And please see if you can scare up another chair for milady’s cabin.”
Hugh shook hands with the captain, and with a last glance at Reverdy, forced himself to walk down the gangboard to the pier. He remained in the middle of the pier to watch the gangboard taken up by the landsmen and the hawsers cast off by the dockhands.
The Sparrowhawk drifted out on the current, then slowly turned and picked up speed as one by one its sails were dropped to catch the wind. Reverdy stood at the shrouds with Dilch, waving occasionally to Hugh. She blew him a number of kisses. He could not see her expression. Soon her face was just a plain white oval beneath a broad brimmed hat with red ribbons that streamed in the air. Then, he could not even distinguish that.
Hugh stood motionless with his hat in an outstretched arm until the Sparrowhawk reached a bend far down river. A passing dockhand caused him to remember to drop his arm. He turned and walked back down the pier to his carriage, forgetting that he still clutched his hat in that hand.
Chapter 9: The Decision
A lull in politics, at least in Queen Anne County, was accompanied by a colony-wide drought that lasted from late spring through mid-summer. “We are abused by nature, as well as by the Crown,” remarked Hugh in answer to a complaint about the weather during a meeting of the Sons of Liberty, to which all other interested parties had been invited some days after June 1st.
It was a sparsely attended meeting, for many planters and farmers chose instead to tend to their crops in a desperate attempt to salvage what they could of them. Hugh advised the company of the Association’s call for a convention in Williamsburg on the first of August.
“Its purpose is two-fold, gentlemen: to sanction another round of nonimportation resolutions, and to agree to select delegates to a congress of the colonies in the fall.” He grimaced. “I am told that many Virginia counties are drafting resolutions and instructions commensurate with the spirit of boycott. Unfortunately, we have not a quorum of freeholders here to discuss what resolutions we might add to those of other counties. Nor is Mr. Cullis here to discuss this business. Nor may we discuss instructions to delegates to this convention, those delegates being Mr. Cullis and me. Until we are reelected by the Governor’s writ, he or I may attend this convention ex officio, but without knowing the true sentiment of the county.”
The meeting was held in the Olympus Room of Steven Safford’s tavern. Those who came noted that his signboard over the entrance had been altered. Blotted out with black paint was “King’s”; printed neatly in yellow over the paint was “Safford’s.”
The tavern owner, after the meeting, remarked to Hugh and Jack as he put two complimentary glasses of ale in front of them at a table, “It seems that the Loyalists in these parts, in absentia, have voted down any further action by the county. And the others are dispirited and resigned to hardship.”
“Mr. Cullis’s hand may be detected in that vote, even as far away as the Piedmont, where he pursues deer and wolves,” said Hugh with irony.
Safford nodded. “I hear that he rode about the county after he returned from Williamsburg, talking to the freeholders here about the Governor’s dissolution.”
“Doubtless to instill in them a fear of His Excellency, or of God and the courts if they defy him.”
Jack turned to John Proudlocks and said, “Well, John, it seems that you’ve studied law, only to return to a lawless country.”
“For the nonce,” Proudlocks replied with a smile.
Reverend Acland, in his sermon one Sunday during that dry spell, cited the surprising snow in early May, which was followed by a frost that damaged most rye and oats crops, and killed countless tobacco seedlings that their planters had not been careful or quick enough to bed in straw. It was all, according to the pastor, the work of God. “The extended denial of rain is His third and most distressing message to us this sorrow-filled season. We have caused Him to frown on our actions. Only obedience to Him and His temporal representative will mollify our Savior, and then we shall again merit His benevolent countenance, and prosper in our humble lives.”
Several men in the congregation abruptly rose from their pews and walked out of the church with their wives and children. Stunned, Acland and the rest of the congregation watched them leave. One of the men paused at the door to turn and shake a finger at Acland, who stood frozen in his high pulpit. “Whose ‘benevolent countenance’ will we merit, Reverend? God’s, or the king’s? I don’t know about God’s intentions, but it seems the only thing that’ll make His Majesty happy is if we all obeyed him into our own starvation!” Then he spun on his heel and followed his family out the door.
The pastor merely blinked in speechlessness, and after a moment, glanced down with a pained expression at his flock. He was visibly annoyed and offended by the demonstration, and stammered throughout the rest of his sermon.
Two weeks after Reverdy’s departure, Hugh remembered, almost without cause, something that Jack Frake had said to him on the evening of the celebration. He rode to Morland Hall and asked him what it was that he wanted to show him.
When his friend opened the ice cellar door and led him inside with a lantern, Hugh gasped in immediate recognition. He did not need to guess the contents of the powder kegs and what lay beneath the long shapes of the tarpaulins. “Oh, Jack! This is…dangerous.”
“This is what those Customsmen must have been after,” said Jack.
“Yes. Of course. I am surprised that they have not returned.” He faced his friend. “How long have you been collecting this armory?”
“For the last three years.” Jack walked over to the crate that was marked “Barret’s Volley.” He nodded to it. “Actually, I began collecting all this when I bought Mr. Barret’s seized type.”
Hugh lifted the tarpaulin that covered the long-gun. “Where did you get this?”
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br /> “Ramshaw found it in Jamaica. It’s old, but in very good condition. I took it apart and cleaned it inside and out. And the swivel gun is from the Sparrowhawk.” He raised another length of canvas.
Hugh grinned, stood over to it and ran a hand over the brass length of the swivel gun that rested next to the long-gun. “Not the same one you used to blow off that pirate’s head?”
Jack Frake nodded. “The very same. It seems I’ve not yet finished with it.”
Hugh replaced the long-gun’s tarpaulin. “Jack, why did you not tell me about this sooner?”
Jack dropped the canvas atop the swivel gun. “Would you have approved?”
“No.”
Jack Frake leaned against one of the walls of the cellar and folded his arms. “Are you saying that it is permissible for the Crown to assemble troops and weapons in Boston to better enslave us, but that we may not reciprocate in kind?”
“Three years ago, Jack, there was a chance to mend our differences. There is still a chance.”
“There was never a chance, Hugh. I knew that some ten years ago, after we received word of the Proclamation that locked us east of the mountains and turned the continent into a Bridewell Prison.”
“That is an unfortunate description of our predicament.”
“Your very words, Hugh, when you argued with Mr. Henry for the Resolves in the House, nearly ten years ago.”
Hugh stood in amazed recollection. “So they were.” After a moment, he gestured to the room at large. “Jack, it may well be that Mr. Hunt will return, determined not to be foiled. I recommend moving this armory to a more secure place. Perhaps to the Otway place, to one of the out-buildings that had not been ruined by the river.”
“I’ve thought of that,” said Jack. “Will you help me in that task, when I’m ready?”
“Of course. Send word to me, and I shall be there.”
* * *
When he returned to Meum Hall, Hugh reviewed Mr. Beecroft’s account ledgers, then turned to whittle down the stack of correspondence that had accumulated over the past weeks. Mixed in with the correspondence were a dozen political pamphlets by tractarians both for and against Crown actions and policies, and a half dozen of both Virginia Gazettes that contained perorations in a similar vein, some on the mark, others hysterical, but all angry. Noteworthy among the latter was a series the letters in the Rind Gazette from a “British American,” thought by some to be Thomson Mason, recently elected burgess for Loudoun County.
On top of the pile was a letter from his father, dated early May, which he had only glanced at earlier, and saw that was another confession of failure in politics:
“My dear Hugh: I have learned in the most humbling manner imaginable that the Commons is not my best venue. I am more comfortable discussing rabbit warrens with our wardens in Danvers than I am addressing the mass of members here. I dither and stammer when I rise to speak, often resorting to making disconnected points I had earlier labored to thread together and practiced on your patient mother and your sister Alice. On more than one occasion I have provoked mocking members to remind me to address my words to the Chair. My remissness in this regard has given some cruel members leave to make sport of my lapses in House protocol. I confess that I am not only ineffectual in the House, but very likely an embarrassment and impediment to our cause.
“Oh, how I long for Sir Dogmael’s confident eloquence, whose thoughts and sentiments were en rapport with his oration! What ease of expression, embedded in so ordered a mind! We so miss his pleasantly innervating company! I sometimes wish it were possible for him to speak through me from his final reward, that I could be his Delphic oracle. Even though his skill often proved a liability, I am certain that in these critical times it would now make a difference. He was a knight, a paladin, and I have been but his fumbling squire in this art…. ”
He finished the letter, which contained news of more dangerous mischief by Parliament, some family news, a brief report on his uncle the Earl’s activities, and worried comments on the state of trade between England and the colonies. Hugh sighed in sympathy with his father. What a burden he had taken upon himself, he thought. And a futile one, as well! He glanced at the pamphlets and Gazettes that awaited him. He sighed again, this time tiredly. His sight rested on the pile of tracts and pamphlets he himself had written against all the legislation that was now old news.
He reread another Gazette that carried the announcement from Governor Dunmore who, having issued a writ for new elections for a General Assembly to be convened in mid-August, after the convention, now prorogued it until early November. A letter from Colonel Munford explained that it was part punishment for calling the convention, even though only the Assembly could vote money for the militia that the Governor intended to call up for his planned campaign against the Indians on the western frontier. “It matters little to him that we cannot renew the law that pays our sheriffs and coroners and other officers,” wrote Munford, “and that most of our courts as a consequence are effectively closed. We cannot fathom how he will meet the militia’s expenses, although we are certain he will not volunteer them from his own purse.”
He tossed the Gazette aside and reached for the next letter that sat next atop the pile.
He frowned when he recognized the handwriting on the sealed paper: It was Reverdy’s.
Very gently, he broke the seal and opened the page. The letter read:
“My beloved Hugh: It takes what seems forever to find the words for this letter, and I think parts of me die when I find them and put them down on this paper. I must first thank you for being so understanding of my predicament, and allowing me to journey home to better ponder our situation without the distraction of crisis. It is no thoughtless thing I do here, leaving this missive among the papers you are sure to peruse after I have gone. It is the pensive coward in me, for I could not command the courage to tell you what I write here. And because I have not the strength to prolong the pain of writing these words, I shall be mercifully brief for both our sakes.
“I cannot return to you and Meum Hall until reconciliation has been reached between our England and the colonies. I cannot contemplate returning to our normal bliss, not until bliss has been restored in the damnable politics that lately has occupied so much of your energy and concern. All I see ahead are ruination, and misery, and the demise of so many people and things close to us. You seem to be made for that kind of existence, and have been since the idyll of our childhoods. I confess I am not so made. I have never told you, but I have had nightmares of visitations of hell on Meum Hall, and on Jack and Etáin, and everyone we hold dear, the flames of perdition rising to consume everything, followed by the sound of endless dirges of death assaulting my ear, the same nightmare, over and over…. ”
He slapped the letter down as he shot from his chair, exclaiming, “No!” — to her sense of foreboding, to her willingness to surrender their happiness together, to Jack’s certainty of war, to Reece Vishonn’s resignation to war or submission to Crown authority, to the deadening sense of futility that smothered so much ambition. “No!” he thought, it shall not be! None of it shall come to pass!
At that moment, he decided. He rushed from his study and the great house and found Beecroft in his office in the senior staff’s quarters. “Mr. Beecroft, what England-bound ships are at the riverfront here?”
The astonished Beecroft blinked once, and replied, “The Osprey, sir. And the Anacreon. They’re loading what they can. I believe they both plan to leave directly for England in a few days. The Osprey took on what the Busy could not. It had ample space in the hold.” The steward paused. “Sir, I’ve spoken with their captains and masters. They don’t think they’ll be back this way for a while, not until the troubles are settled.”
“Of course not. Well, be kind enough to go down and enquire of them if they have room for a passenger.”
After a moment, Beecroft, again astonished, answered, “Yes, sir. Is it you?”
“I must return to Eng
land for a while, to right some wrongs.”
* * *
“Why?” asked Etáin
Hugh shrugged. “For many reasons,” he said. He rode to Morland Hall later that afternoon to break the news. Beecroft had managed to reserve a place for him on the Anacreon, which was to set sail for England in two days. Hugh had given him and Spears instructions on what to pack for the voyage, and they were now busying themselves in that task. Hugh stood with his friends in the supper room.
“First, I will not be able to attend the convention in Williamsburg in two weeks, except, perhaps, to audit it. But, I would be out of sorts, since the county has no resolutions to present to the Association and no delegates to instruct on the matters to be voted on. In any event, no instructions. I would be a mere spectator. After my career in the House, that role would be intolerable, nearly an offence. I have been spoilt by the privilege of speaking my mind to my peers.”
Jack Frake smiled. “That’s no reason for going to England.”
Hugh grinned in concession. “As you know, the Governor has already prorogued the General Assembly. He is likely to do it again. The House may not sit again until spring of next year. I cannot brook artificial idleness, especially one enforced by that scion of the Stuarts.”
“Still not a good enough reason,” said Jack, amused.
“I wish to see if I can help my father in the Commons. He writes that Parliament will sit again in late November. Perhaps I can speak in his place.” Hugh paused, and added with less confidence, “And, there is Reverdy. She…left me a note saying that she cannot return here until there is a reconciliation. It may be possible that I can have a hand in effecting one.”
To this, Jack and Etáin had no immediate reply. They were not certain which reconciliation their friend meant, but they doubted the likelihood of either of them if they were mutually dependent. After a moment, Jack remarked, “Hugh, if you speak in the Commons, you will not be addressing your peers.”
