by Edward Cline
Then they all heard another drum. Two drums.
“Ah,” said Major Ragsdale, “here comes my consequence.”
Edgar Cullis, Reverend Acland, and the other committeemen wished it were possible to rearrest Jack Frake. But they would not move for as long as eight muskets were ready to protect him. They were certain that all the other muskets in the Company were primed, as well. And all the members of the “loyal” committee of safety now began to rue their actions here. They sensed that the major was spoiling for a fight, and that the matter might now go beyond what they had planned. They began to wonder whose authority was being imposed.
Jack Frake strolled with apparent unconcern back to his horse, but did not mount it. And with John Proudlocks, Jock Fraser, and the others in the Company, he witnessed the spectacle they had seen at Charlestown.
The grenadiers appeared first over the top of the bluff, muskets shouldered, bayonets fixed. As they made the rise, they quickly formed into a line as broad as Queen Anne Street, ten men across. Behind them followed the regulars. Jack Frake estimated there were about eighty men in the force, exclusive of its officers. They had about a quarter mile to cover before the marines passed the courthouse and came within a few yards of Safford’s tavern. Jack Frake casually paced back and forth, not taking his eyes off the marines. Major Ragsdale strolled in the direction of his approaching battalion.
Few of the townsfolk had ever seen such a display of military force. Some watched the marines with fascination, others with trepidation. Lucas Rittles and a few other tradesmen stepped back into their shops and quietly locked their doors and closed their shutters. Lydia Heathcoate moved from the door of her millinery, made her way through the crowd of onlookers, and walked boldly up to Proudlocks. “John,” she said, “they burned your ensign. I saw them do it. That brute over there put the match to it,” she said, pointing to Jared Hunt.
Proudlocks nodded and replied, “You’ll sew us another, Lydia. Now, go back into your shop.”
The woman touched a sleeve of Proudlocks’s coat, and obeyed.
Jared Hunt also paced back and forth. At one point, he stopped to survey the faces of the men of the Company. He grunted once, then braved a question. “Mr. Frake, I do not see Mr. Kenrick in your ranks there. I did not know you had a coward for a friend.”
Jack Frake studied Hunt with contempt. “He is a soldier of another kind, and certainly not a coward. Say no more about him.”
“I’ll say what I please,” muttered Hunt to himself as he turned away.
A pair of barking dogs paced the marines. One nipped at the heel of an officer, who took a swipe at it with his drawn sword, cutting its back. The dog ran off, howling.
Major Ragsdale stopped, and nodded to the leading officer. The officer, a captain, shouted a command to halt, relayed by a lieutenant and a sergeant. The formation came to a halt.
“Front rank, charge bayonets, Mr. Crofts,” said Ragsdale.
The captain gave the command. The front rank of grenadiers brought down their muskets with a “Huzzah!” “Front rank, kneel, Mr. Crofts,” said Ragsdale, “second rank, charge bayonets.”
The orders were repeated. The front rank dropped to one knee, while the one behind it repeated the first action. Ragsdale then turned to face Jack Frake and the Company. He saw, much to his surprise, that the militia had silently copied the same actions. He drew his sword. “Now, sir,” he said in a raised voice, “will you order your men to ground their arms and disperse, or shall we have it out here?”
“Leave our country, and we will disperse at leisure, Major,” Jack Frake answered. He turned to face the Company, and raised an arm as though to give a signal. Jared Hunt and his Customs men, suddenly realizing that they were in a possible crossfire, rushed to join the men on the porch.
But Reverend Acland dashed by them from the tavern porch in the opposite direction and across the street, snatched a musket from one of Vishonn’s men, cocked the hammer, and aimed it at Jack Frake. “The Lord has commanded that I cut you from the flock of the righteous! Begone, Satan’s emissary!” he shouted. He raised the weapon and took a few steps closer to Jack Frake to ensure that he did not miss.
Jack Frake, surprised, turned to face his assailant. John Proudlocks let go of the reins of the horse he was leading away, quickly raised his musket, and fired at Acland.
The ball struck Acland in the neck. The minister’s head whipped to one side as though he had been slapped. His musket discharged, its ball striking a pillar of Safford’s porch. Acland gasped, then gurgled, and fell to the ground.
Everyone but Jack Frake and his men looked dumbly at the body of Acland kicking in its death throes. Proudlocks slapped the rump of the horse, which cantered away, then quickly reloaded.
Even Major Ragsdale looked stunned. Then he frowned, stepped swiftly to one side, raised his sword, and commanded, “Front rank, present firelocks and prepare to fire!”
The grenadiers cocked their hammers and raised their muskets to their shoulders.
“Fire on those rebels!” shouted the major.
In the meantime, Jack Frake and Proudlocks had taken their places. Jack Frake gave the command to the two front ranks of the Company to fire.
A deafening roar came first, then tongues of flame leapt from the two opposing lines. Screams and gasps and expressions of horror followed almost simultaneously. Six of the Company’s men were hit, and four grenadiers. The spectators scattered to find cover.
Most of Vishonn’s militia had crouched to the ground to avoid being hit by the grenadiers’ volley. Reece Vishonn struggled to calm his panicked horse.
Ragsdale quickly ordered the second rank of grenadiers to fire. But because he had not yet informed his officers who were the rebels and who were the loyalists, that rank’s lieutenant ordered his men to train their muskets on the kneeling loyalist militia he could see through the smoke. He assumed they were preparing to deliver a volley. Ragsdale noticed the error too late to correct it. The lieutenant gave the command to fire. Again the air thundered. Glass shattered and shouts were heard.
Half of the loyalist militia never rose again, but rolled over where they had crouched, dead or wounded. The survivors jumped up and ran, many tossing their weapons to the ground. Not one of them stopped long enough to notice that their colonel had toppled from his horse, dead. Vishonn’s horse, a fine thoroughbred the planter had purchased in Fairfax, fled with the loyalists, balls in its haunch and neck.
The grenadiers reloaded. When the lingering smoke had cleared enough for him to see through it, Ragsdale grimaced when he saw the carnage dealt on the loyalists. He also saw that the opposing militia were gone. “Mr. Crofts, Mr. Selwyn!” he shouted to his captains, “flanking parties on both sides! Now! They think they’re going to pull a Concord road on us!”
Half a company of grenadiers and half a company of regulars instantly broke ranks and swept to both sides of the street. Already Jack Frake’s men were firing from behind the houses and shops that lined it. They were immediately engaged in running firefights with the flankers who dived into their task to rout the militiamen.
Ragsdale ordered the remaining marines to rise and advance with bayonets leveled. He beckoned to a corporal and ordered him to return to the Sparrowhawk to summon the surgeon. The corporal took off in a trot.
As they came upon the fallen loyalists, the major pointed to them with his sword. “Never mind these fellows,” he said, “they were here to oppose the rebels. But any rebel ahead of us who shows life, finish him and show no mercy! They show us none!” Three of the Company who were wounded and unable to move were subsequently bayoneted by the grenadiers. Ragsdale came upon the body of Reece Vishonn, shook his head in disgust, and glanced at the men on the porch, who were all on their stomachs. All except Sheriff Tippet, who sat on the steps, bawling. Edgar Cullis got to his feet, looking appalled. Carver Gramatan and Mayor Corbin also rose. Jared Hunt and his Customsmen remained on their stomachs, waiting until they were absolutely certain
they would not be mistaken for rebels.
As the marines marched past the tavern, Cullis stepped down from the porch in a daze of disbelief, walking awkwardly like an infant, unsure of his steps, and unsure if he wanted to take them. He looked down at the bodies of all the men he had known, known for years. Some had voted for him in past elections. One had been a client who had recently hired him over a surveying dispute with a neighbor. He stood for a moment over Reverend Acland, then over Reece Vishonn.
Oblivious to the musketry around the town, he glanced up and noticed the broken glass of Lydia Heathcoate’s millinery. He swallowed once, and crept inside the shop. The woman lay dead on the floor. A grenadier’s ball had struck her in the breast. Her eyes were still open, and seemed to stare back up at him in accusation. He left the shop and sat on the edge of the brick sidewalk that Hugh Kenrick had donated to the town years ago. Ten of Vishonn’s men lay before him, dead or wounded. Cullis sat there, unable to cry or feel anything. All he could do was blink in incomprehension.
When they saw townsfolk venturing out again, and that the marines had gone far up the street, Jared Hunt finally rose with his Customs men. He sniffed once as his sight roamed over the carnage. He glanced down with disdain at Sheriff Tippet, and scoffed in mockery at the sight of Cullis immobilized in front of the millinery. Then he turned and said to one of his men. “So, this is how they want it! Return to the Sparrowhawk! Tell Mr. Tragle to prepare to go up river. We will be by presently, after I have apprised Major Ragsdale of my plan.” He smiled. “I will destroy Morland Hall!”
Chapter 16: The Retribution
Jared Hunt searched for Jack Frake among the dead and wounded strewn on Queen Anne Street. He was not to be found. It meant that the man was still free to harass and snipe at the Crown. He was also disappointed that Hugh Kenrick had not been present.
In time, the musket fire around the town lessened, then ceased altogether. Hunt and his men wandered around the outskirts in search of Jack Frake. They found a few more bodies of the rebels, but not that of Jack Frake. They returned to Queen Anne Street. Major Ragsdale reappeared at the head of a platoon of marines, while the remaining marines drifted back to the street in groups and reformed under the direction of their sergeants and officers. Some redcoats were collecting the dropped arms of the dead, wounded, and deserters alike. Hunt intercepted Ragsdale and told him what he planned to do next. The major was indifferent to the Customs man’s purposes, but he would cooperate in any venture to enforce Crown law and authority.
They stood in the street outside Safford’s tavern. Hunt nodded to what remained of the county committee of safety. Mayor Corbin and Carver Gramatan were helping Edgar Cullis to his feet. Sheriff Tippet was not to be seen. “Not much authority left here to assert, Major,” remarked Hunt, “excepting our own.” With a chuckle, he nodded to Cullis. “That man is in need of some smelling salts. I suppose he thought authority would come as a plate of bloodless mutton.” He gestured to the scene at large. “Well, the tavern is closed, as they wanted, and its proprietor arrested for all eternity!”
The major sheathed his sword. “Where do you think the rebels fled to, Mr. Hunt?”
“Possibly into neighboring counties, Major. I don’t believe any of them would be foolhardy to return to their homes.”
The major cast a speculative glance at the body of Albert Acland. “I was quite astounded when one of those villains potted Reverend Acland,” he volunteered unexpectedly. “Not that the reverend was a wholesome fellow to know. I saw the signs. He reminded me of my father, who was a minister, as well, and quite intolerably righteous. There is a certain kind of righteousness that means no good, not to anyone. Still, I knew at that moment that I must do my duty, and bring force to bear.”
Jared Hunt was, for once, amazed. “But, Major, the good man was about to pot Mr. Frake.”
“Well, Mr. Frake must have done some unforgivably wicked thing in the past to so aggravate the fellow. He did call him Satan, as nearly as offensive an utterance as taking the Lord’s name in vain.”
One of his rare pensive moods gripped Hunt, and he considered the problem. Then he shook his head. “No, Major,” he said. “I don’t believe that Mr. Frake did anything to aggravate the reverend. I do believe it was simply a matter that Mr. Frake…was.” He paused. “I understand from my informants here that the reverend’s animosity for Mr. Frake was as old as their acquaintance. And, as it turned out, fatal.” Hunt had sensed where his thinking was leading him, which was to a vaguely perilous knowledge that he shared that animosity. He snapped his mind away from the thought.
Then they heard a muffled shot from inside Safford’s tavern. A lieutenant and some regulars on the porch rushed inside. Ragsdale, Hunt, and the Customs men followed.
On the floor, near one of the tables, they saw the body of Sheriff Cabal Tippet, and a smoking pistol beside it, its trigger guard still holding the index finger that had pressed the trigger. In the back of the room, Safford’s serving boy sat pressed against the wall, his eyes wide in trauma. They did not know if the boy’s condition was a result of witnessing the battle, or the suicide.
Hunt said, without a trace of remorse, “I guess the good sheriff blamed himself for the affair. Never heard a man weep as much as he did.”
The subject did not interest the major. He had no sympathy for crying men. He appraised the room they stood in. “This will make a suitable billet for my men. We can turn that room your fellows searched into a hospital of sorts for my wounded. The surgeon should be here soon.” He sighed. “I expect we will be here for a while. I must find quarters for myself and my officers.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Hunt. “Here comes your likely host!”
Carver Gramatan entered the room with George Roane. They saw Tippet’s body. Roane stared open-mouthed at his superior, then ran from the room. With a great sigh of sorrow and tiredness, Gramatan moved away and sat down in one of the tavern chairs and worried his chin with a shaking hand. Then he looked at Hunt and asked, “What’s to be done now, Mr. Hunt?”
Hunt permitted himself a laugh. “You are a reduced committee, sir, but I don’t see why you may not assert some authority here.” He paused. “I suppose you can set up shop in the courthouse.”
“Until you do,” added Ragsdale, “consider this town under martial law. I shall endeavor to make our presence as painless as possible.” He smiled. “My officers and I will need rooms. I hope you may accommodate us.” He paused, and seemed to remember something. “Oh, yes. My gravest apologies for firing on your own militia, Mr. Gramatan. In the heat of battle, these kinds of things may happen. But, it seems that this Mr. Frake was right, at least about one thing. Your militia served no purpose here today, except as a luckless obstruction.”
* * *
Hugh Kenrick said to Hulton, “When I purchased this place, it was in a state of advanced decrepitude, like a merchantman trapped in the Godwin Sands, subject to the indignities of pilferage and decay. Many planters hereabouts now consider it the mode of perfect business.” They stood in the middle of Meum Hall’s fields, next to the bamboo conduit. After breakfast, Hugh invited the former sergeant and valet to accompany him on a tour of the plantation.
Hulton was especially impressed with the conduit. “What an odd contrivance, sir,” he remarked. “But I am sure its novelty is umbraged by its utility.”
Hugh laughed. “What a superb choice of words, Hulton! You have much improved since we met last.”
“I have been reading many books, sir,” answered Hulton with pride.
It was at that moment that they heard the first volleys between the marines and the militia. Hugh Kenrick had only heard their like years ago, when watching George the Second review troops in London, and was uncertain of their cause. Hulton, however, knew the sound all too well.
“What the devil…?” exclaimed Hugh.
“It is a battle, sir,” replied Hulton simply.
Tenants of Meum Hall had also heard the musketry. Many of them pause
d in their work to look in the direction of Caxton.
After a moment, Hugh said as he strode back to the great house, “Come, Hulton. I must investigate this. You will stay here. If Governor Dunmore has raided the town with soldiers — and I have heard that half a regiment has been loaned him from Florida — you would be at risk.”
“This is true, sir,” said Hulton, following. “If discovered, I would be flogged, or hanged by my thumbs…or hanged.”
When Hugh had saddled a horse in the stable and mounted it, the former sergeant said, “Take care, sir.”
Hugh had not gone far along the narrow road to Caxton when he encountered men fleeing from the town. From them he learned what had happened. “And Mr. Frake?” he asked.
“He is unhurt, sir,” said one of the men. “We are to reassemble elsewhere, and continue the fight.” The man paused long enough to say, “Mr. Safford is dead, sir. He was shot by Sheriff Tippet, who was there to close the tavern. And Reverend Acland took a musket from one of Mr. Vishonn’s men and tried to shoot Mr. Frake. Mr. Proudlocks shot him, instead. That is what started it. And then the soldiers thought Mr. Vishonn’s men were with us, and fired on them, too.” Then the volunteer turned and ran off in the direction of Morland Hall.
Hugh Kenrick’s heart sank as he rode into the town and saw the aftermath of the skirmish. Townsfolk were occupied collecting the bodies of the fallen into one place, in an empty lot next to Lucas Rittles’s shop. Some of the wounded men from Vishonn’s militia were being treated by the town’s barber, who had some surgical skills. The bodies of some dead marines were collected on the other side of the street. He saw marine pickets posted every twenty yards along Queen Anne Street. Marines swarmed in and out of Safford’s tavern. He saw Muriel Tippet rushing up the street from the bluff with George Roane. They were stopped at the door of the tavern by a guard, who told them that the sheriff’s body had been taken across the street to the empty lot.
He saw Edgar Cullis and Mayor Corbin wandering together in apparent helplessness. Hugh rode over to them. Cullis looked up at him, at first not recognizing his opponent. When he did, it was without his usual hostility for the master of Meum Hall. “Mr. Vishonn is dead,” he said.