As soon as the door of the tavern closed behind Ramsey’s party, Duncan and Woolford circled behind the building, entered the kitchen, and slipped into the private dining chamber reserved by the committeemen months earlier. They sat in the shadows behind the half-drawn curtain used to divide the room.
The five men at one end of the long table by the row of front windows rose and politely greeted Lord Ramsey, then Gabriel, who was introduced as his secretary. As Ramsey sat at the end of the table nearest the door, the five introduced themselves and Gabriel opened a journal, produced a quill and ink pot, and made a show of recording their names, interrupting to ask spellings. Samuel Adams from Boston, Peter Hopkins from New York, Peyton Randolph of Williamsburg, John Dickinson of Philadelphia, and Mistress Deborah Franklin, speaking for her husband. Dickinson introduced Benjamin Rush as their own secretary. Ramsey’s guards from the coach, each armed with a shortsword and a pistol in a shoulder holster in the style of Scottish troops, sat with stern expressions on either side of the door. Duncan recognized both as pharaoh riders from Galilee.
A maid appeared with a tray of cider and mugs, assisted by a girl with blonde braids carrying a platter of iced sweet rolls. The braids, and her bright white apron, gave Analie the look of an innocent serving girl. She had insisted on playing a role in their little drama.
“We were surprised at the announcement you sent from Philadelphia,” the portly Samuel Adams lied, “but we are always honored to be joined by a member of the House of Lords.”
“Join you?” Ramsey retorted, with a pompous gesture that seemed to dismiss Adam’s words. “Only in the sense that we sit at the same table. Rather I ensnare you.” As he spoke the remaining men of his escort, the two outriders, still wearing their cloaks, entered the room and sat, backs to Woolford and Duncan, as if to corner the committeemen.
Adams ignored Ramsey’s opening. “We are here to discuss the particularities of a colonial congress,” the Boston committeman continued, “but those of us habituated to public discourse can be so long-winded. Why if Dr. Franklin were here he would take thirty minutes just to warm his tongue and continue through at least three pitchers of ale. We know his better half will be so much more succinct.” Mrs. Franklin, a solid-looking woman with deeply penetrating eyes, offered a congenial nod in reply. She had played the gracious hostess to Duncan and his friends the prior week in Philadelphia, taking particular delight in demonstrating the household’s electrical apparatus, and later insisting they all go to church to pray for Devon Gates when she had learned of his fate. “I am sure you would like to be spared the ordeal of our own discourse, Lord Ramsey,” Adams declared in an attentive tone. “Prithee, if you have business with us let us hear you out first, sir.”
An exaggerated sigh escaped Ramsey’s throat. “I once found signs of rats in my country house in Wiltshire,” the patrician began in a conversational tone. “My steward said it was to be expected, that they were doing no real harm. I told the fool that a rat feeling safe in the cellar will soon aspire to enter the kitchen, the dining room, and even the parlor itself. I ordered every barrel and rack moved out. We starved half a dozen terriers for a week then turned them loose. In the end we had nothing left but one very plump terrier.” He cast a frigid smile down the table at the colonials. “We have rats in the cellar of the empire and it is time to loose the dogs.”
With an air of ceremony Gabriel produced a thick bundle of papers from his leather portfolio and handed Ramsey the topmost sheet. “A secret letter from Mr. Hopkins of New York to Mr. Henry of Williamsburg.” The patrician held it toward the window and made a show of scanning it before reading a passage. “The pompous Hanoverian is no longer my king,” Ramsey recited. “He is a false idol which we must tear down.” Ramsey wagged a finger at Hopkins, who silently glared at him. The lord continued with a letter from Adams to Franklin. “The gout in George’s foot has spread to his brain,” Ramsey read. “He who once strutted now only limps and babbles.” He cast a censuring glance when a small laugh escaped Adams’s throat. “We have no obligation to serve the infirm and incapacitated,” Ramsey continued, then read from another, and another, all allegedly letters between known committeemen, all with similarly incendiary passages.
Ramsey glanced without acknowledgment at the two men who stepped from the kitchen and sat behind Rush and Franklin. “This is treason, gentlemen. Men have lost their heads in the Tower for less. In another century we would have had you drawn and quartered in the public square.” He accepted another bundle of papers from Gabriel.
“More letters, these boasting of tax stamps stolen from the king. One shipment in New Jersey, another in Massachusetts. Contemptible!” Ramsey spat, heat building in his voice. “It makes you little better than a gang of cutpurses, damned your eyes!” He fixed Dickinson with a baleful stare. “Your agent Franklin in London is the worst devil of all!” he barked, pulling out a letter and waving it at Dickinson with a victorious air. “To the Committee of Philadelphia,” Ramsey read, then paused as Dickinson held up a hand and pushed a quill and ink pot to Deborah Franklin, who began transcribing.
“To the Committee of Philadelphia,” she repeated.
“I have led the king’s men to believe that—”
“Prithee, sir,” Mrs. Franklin interrupted with a matronly air, “more slowly.”
With an impatient sigh Ramsey pressed on, “—to believe that the colonies will tolerate the dread tax to give us time to organize the congress. We will let the Parliament sleep until we awake it with a claw at its throat. What the king built in America shall be ours if we are but patient,” Ramsey recited, ending with a flourish. “He should hang for this!”
When none of the colonials reacted he hesitated, then lifted the next five papers and read the names on each, the names of each of the committeemen at the table. “These are warrants for your arrest on charges of treason. With these I could have you clamped in irons today and shipped to London for trial.”
Ramsey shot a peeved glance as another gentleman moved out of the shadows and settled in a chair along the wall. “But we are inclined to be merciful. We will hold the warrants and all of you, all the committeemen, will resign from whatever public offices you may hold and refrain from all public and political discourse. There will be no colonial congress.”
One of the most recent arrivals, a spare, austere man in simple Quaker dress, stood and took a seat alongside that of Dickinson at the end of the long table opposite Ramsey.
“My name is William Allen,” the newcomer solemnly announced as he placed a heavy brass seal on the table beside him. “I have the honor to serve on the Governor’s Council, and in the absence of the honorable Governor John Penn, now at his English estates, I have full power to act for him. Last night,” he said, producing a paper from his own leather portfolio, “I appointed Mr. Dickinson here as special magistrate. Of Pennsylvania. Surely even you, the most creative of accusers, would have to acknowledge that you are not in Virginia, but in Penn’s Woods.” The acting governor began arranging papers in front of him. “Where to begin?”
Adams cleared his throat.
“Very well.” Allen pounded the heavy seal on the table. “This court is in session and Mr. Dickinson is presiding, assisted by Mr. Socrates Moon as clerk of this special court,” he added, as Conawago, dressed in his European finery, rose from along the wall and sat just behind Dickinson.
Dickinson nodded to the acting governor and turned to the representative from Massachusetts. “Samuel Adams of Boston, did you write the letter Lord Ramsey ascribes to you?”
Mr. Adams suddenly lost his jovial air, shaking his head so hard it slightly dislodged his wig. “Never in life.”
“Your name is on it,” Ramsey snapped. “It is your handwriting.”
“No.”
“I assure you I can find witnesses to attest to it!” Ramsey scolded.
“No.”
Ramsey simmered. “I tell you, sir, I have your name on a treasonous document.”
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bsp; “No,” Adams insisted again, “but perhaps Mrs. Franklin can demonstrate the truth for the court.”
Ramsey scornfully watched as Deborah Franklin, smiling earnestly at him, handed the transcription of the letter she had made to Conawago, who laid it in front of Ramsey.
An impatient rumbling rose from Ramsey’s throat. “You don’t seem to grasp the jeopardy in which you . . .” The lord’s words died away as he studied the transcription. “I am quite sure I don’t understand,” he sputtered.
“The two versions are identical, are they not?” the magistrate asked. “Identical in every respect.” He turned to Conawago. “Perhaps you can enlighten our guest?”
“Identical down to the curves on the Fs and flourishes on the Gs,” Conawago elaborated. “Because your bounty men did not understand that Deborah Franklin acts as a surrogate for her husband while he is in London. You intercepted letters that you assumed were written by Benjamin, because they were signed Franklin, when in fact they were written by Mrs. Franklin. So your forgeries of letters from Benjamin are all made in her hand. The wrong hand. Your agent Francis Johnson did not know this when he delivered a letter purportedly from Benjamin to Johnson Hall. But his father, who has the pleasure of frequently corresponding with Deborah, immediately recognized her hand and saw that treachery was afoot.”
“I have a commission from the governor of Virginia!” Ramsey snarled.
Allen nodded to Ramsey’s outriders. “You have a vast imagination, sir, especially when it comes to your own abilities and authority,” the governor declared. “It is you, sir, who presume too much. The traveling companions you hired in Philadelphia have had time to change to their official attire.” The two men rose and removed their cloaks, revealing blue waistcoats trimmed with grey. “These stalwart lads you hired with the coach when you disembarked in Philadelphia are dragoons of the governor’s guard, as is your carriage driver. Did I mention the owner of the livery is my brother-in-law? And perhaps you are acquainted with my two special bailiffs, appointed by my hand yesterday. It seemed the least we could do.” As he spoke the door opened and Tanaqua and Ononyot, both wearing new waistcoats over buckskin leggings, moved inside so quickly that the two seated pharaohs from Galilee, stunned by their appearance, had no time to resist. The Mohawks pinned them to the wall with their war axes and relieved them of their pistols. A small strangled noise came from Ramsey’s throat. He shrank back in his chair. He was, Duncan well knew, terrified of all Indians. Ramsey turned to Gabriel as if expecting him to come to his assistance, but the superintendent of Galilee sat frozen, the color draining from his face.
Murdo Ross came forward, leading the limping artist Jeremiah Bowen. Duncan had urged the Scot to stay away from the Pennsylvania officials because of the standoff in the Conococheague Valley, but two days before word had arrived of a truce in the valley. All prisoners had been released, and the governor had assured them the unfortunate episode in the valley was forgotten, and that all shipments to the western territory would henceforth be inspected by his personal representatives. Kuwali appeared behind Ross, helping Mr. Prindle the printer into a chair. Dickinson lifted a Bible, swore Prindle and Bowen to the truth, then began his new questioning. Ramsey said nothing, only crossed his arms and glared at Dickinson as the magistrate skillfully pieced together the story, carefully reviewed with Duncan, Woolford, and the witnesses the preceding day. The full story of the forged stamps, forged commissions, and forged letters took hours to recount, with Rush recording every word.
“I have a commission from the governor of Virginia!” Ramsey finally protested, his voice thick with loathing. “I am a commander of the naval militia!”
Dickinson gave a lightless smile and waved another paper at Ramsey, then nodded to one of the dragoons. “Can you ask the colonel to join us?”
The tall, well-dressed man who strode through the door had the honest air of a farmer but his eyes were deep and his voice one of firm authority as he was sworn in. “Washington, sir,” he declared to Dickinson in a polite tone. “Colonel of the Virginia militia.”
“And commander of that militia?”
“That is my particular honor.”
Dickinson handed him the paper and asked him to describe it.
“From the governor in Williamsburg, sir,” Washington explained. “Signed in my presence and in my possession until I delivered it to you.” He turned to Ramsey. “Your commission is terminated. The Virginia militia no longer requires a naval unit.”
Ramsey’s lips curled in a silent snarl.
“We apologize for troubling you in the harvesting season, Colonel,” Dickinson offered to Washington. “You have a plantation on the Potomac I believe.”
George Washington straightened. “When the integrity of the Virginia military is in question, sir, nothing is too much trouble.”
“Your lenders in London will hear of this!” Ramsey screeched.
“Our Philadelphia friends have arranged for a colonial bank to pay off the debt the governor owes you, sir,” Washington replied with a thin smile, “and perhaps Virginia planters need to learn to do without the lenders of London.”
Dickinson excused the witness and Washington strode outside, where he could be seen lighting up a pipe with Woolford and Major Webb, who now waited with the Pennyslvania dragoons, a dozen of whom had arrived with the governor the prior evening.
The magistrate lifted one more paper. “From a judge in Maryland. A warrant for the arrest of Lord Peter Ramsey on charges of kidnapping and mayhem in Chestertown.”
Ramsey’s face turned crimson. The lace of his collar moved up and down. “Damn your impertinence! You have no proof I was involved!”
“Imagine the trials. British marines desperately trying to avoid court-martial and hanging by explaining they were taking orders from you to commit murder and false enslavement. Not to mention the use of a naval ship to sink private British vessels. Prominent citizens in Philadelphia, Boston, New York, and Williamsburg attesting to your attempt to deprive them of their liberty. Then there are the families of the men who died as a result of your scheme. Those are just the offenses of the Krakens. Imagine what the king would say if he heard of your attempt to defraud him of tax revenues.” Dickinson extended the warrant toward the shadows and Duncan appeared to take the papers to Ramsey. “Do we also need to issue a warrant for embezzling the king’s revenues?”
The pompous lord, who looked as if he might start throwing things at the governor, grabbed the papers, then glanced at Duncan and froze. His rage boiled over as Duncan coolly returned his stare. “McCallum!” Ramsey spat. “You can’t be here. You are on a ship to . . .” he seemed unable to speak for a moment. “You mongrel! You did this! How dare you!” He pounded the table. “I will not have it! McCallum is my property! A runaway!”
“We understand his bond is to Miss Sarah Ramsey,” Dickinson replied.
“She is incapacitated!” Ramsey furiously inserted. “Halfway across the Atlantic. She cannot . . .”
Sarah emerged from the shadows and stepped to Duncan’s side. The cast of characters in their drama, which Woolford had insisted was as good as any of Shakespeare, was complete. “Actually, father, I am quite well, thank you,” she declared in a chill tone. “And as you well know I am a landed free woman in the colony of New York. Mr. McCallum is bound to me alone.”
Ramsey was beginning to look like a cornered beast. He spoke very slowly, vitriol dripping from every word. “I am a member of the House of the Lords!” Spittle flew from his lips. “I am cousin to the king!”
Deborah Franklin pushed back her chair and rose at last. With a ceremonial bearing she asked Kuwali and Analie to help her with a piece of folded cloth, and the two adolescents unfurled a flag, revealing the segmented serpent and its caption Join or Die, which they draped over the mantle, anchored by candlesticks. “I sewed the first of these with Benjamin all those years ago,” she explained to Ramsey in a level voice. “It became one of his favorite treasures, so valued he took it
to London with him. I was so honored to hear that dear Jessica Ross had sewn another that I had to make my own to fly on High Street.”
She opened a worn leather satchel and produced a piece of newsprint, which Kuwali carried to Ramsey. “I helped compose this in my husband’s print shop,” she announced, “though Mr. Moon was of great assistance. It felt good to get ink on my hands again.”
It was a prototype, a mocked-up page of Franklin’s Pennsylvania Gazette. Half the page was taken up by a drawing of a giant eight-legged beast wrapping its tentacles around a map of the thirteen colonies. Beneath it was the caption Kraken Feeds on America While the King Sleeps.
“We typically send a hundred copies of each issue to London,” Deborah Franklin explained, “though I daresay this edition would merit five or six hundred.” She took off her spectacles and cleaned them on a linen napkin. “The article, of course, would include the names of members of your secret club, those we know so far. It will make our little paper famous all over Europe. Perhaps I will send duplicate plates to my husband in London so he can keep up with the demand there. A virtual goldmine for the news journals. The people do so love to read of how the high and mighty fall. With all the resignations from Parliament it will cause, I daresay, it will shift the balance of power in government. And they will all know you caused it.”
Ramsey shrank before their eyes. Indictments from colonial officials meant little to the aristocrat. But the article Franklin threatened would destroy all that Ramsey held dear—his access to the king, his privileges in court, his private club memberships, the status that allowed him to strut and make people cower throughout London society. There would be no more balls, no more regal audiences, no more kowtowing at his presence.
Blood of the Oak: A Mystery Page 39