SH04_Empire

by Edward Cline

  The Board of Trade received their delinquent governor’s letter in late March, but did not read it until early July. In their tardy reply, their lordships offered no concrete guidance to Fauquier except to urge that he abide “by the obvious sense and spirit of His Majesty’s Proclamation.” The Board devoted many more words, however, to a request for an abstract of all patented land in Virginia from which quitrents — an ancient feudal levy on freeholders paid in lieu of service to a king or lord — might be drawn, to more accurately calculate such revenue due the Crown. The Board wished this detailed abstract to include all land patented, bought, and sold, together with names, dates, numbers of acres, and locations, from the founding of the colony a century and a half ago to the present.

  Fauquier reluctantly, and privately, conceded to himself that their lordships were neither blind nor insensitive to the consequences of the proclamation, that they were indifferent to both reason and practicality. He balked at their request for the abstract, and instructed his deputy auditor and deputy secretary to compose memorials to the Board stating the difficulties of the task. He himself did not reply to the Board until late December of that year. In his letter, he stressed that the proposed project would take years to complete, that the colony’s land records were neither complete nor wholly accurate, that the General Assembly would probably refuse to vote the funds for the project — or not enough — and that, in any event, the information sought by the Board could be readily obtained from the Auditor-General’s office there in London, which contained the annual rent rolls and accounts of the colony. The Lieutenant-Governor derived some personal satisfaction from the circumspect reproach in his letter to their lordships. This was the limit of his rebellion.

  * * *

  Captain John Ramshaw, nominally an Anglican, rarely attended services. He reasoned that an angry sea was enough of a fear-inducing phenomenon without him having to be fearful of the Entity credited with its creation. He had fought and survived many storms, and after each one thanked himself first before thanking God. As he saw it, he had beaten Him every time, and charged to an imaginary account in His name every broken spar, shredded sail, and damaged cargo caused by a storm. This was the limit of his faith.

  In February, he delayed sailing the Sparrowhawk to Norfolk so that minor repairs could be made on the vessel. He stayed with Jack Frake at Morland Hall. As a novelty, he attended Reverend Acland’s service at the church. He, too, concluded that the minister was a vindictive man. When he returned to Morland, he said to Jack, “By God, I can tell you, that man has no love for his flock. He’d just as soon see them offer their throats to wolves as see them graze in the fields of purity, just as long as they submitted.”

  Jack smiled and put down the book he was reading. “I warned you,” he said. Then he rose from his desk. “Let’s have some breakfast.”

  “Speaking of wolves,” remarked the captain as they waited for Mrs. Beck to serve them, “when I was last in London, I picked up much talk among the merchants there about some mischief they are up to. It seems that many of them have pestered the Board of Trade and other dens of thievery with demands that something be done about your money, these notes issued by the Assembly here that pass for specie. In London, you know, they are virtually worthless. And I believe our friends wish for a law that would require you people to pay all your debts and for laded goods in sterling.”

  Jack scoffed immediately and shook his head. “Not so much sterling flows through the colonies in a year that could keep Queen Charlotte in good service for a week.”

  “A week or less,” chuckled Ramshaw. “Even so, they will demand such a law. I do not believe any of these fellows appreciate the disadvantages under which the colonies labor.”

  “If they knew, do you think it would make a difference to them?”

  “No. Probably not. The navigation rules do not give you people a fair roll of the dice. They never will, never can. That is why smuggling and forged cockets are more profitable means of trade than ‘fair’ trading.” Ramshaw grinned. “Does your friend Mr. Kenrick know how you remain solvent?”

  “He suspects, but does not inquire.” Jack paused. Mrs. Beck came in with a tray holding their breakfasts.

  When she was gone, Ramshaw asked, “How does he fare?”

  “His father owns a bank, and you know that he also has a busy commerce. Hugh is paid in specie — not necessarily in sterling — just as you pay me, in violation of another law. Otherwise, he would be in as great a debt as any of the other planters here.” Jack chuckled. “Between us, he and I are largely responsible for any coin you may see changing hands in Caxton.”

  “He is a good and wise lad.”

  “And a friend.” Jack took a mouthful from his plate, then said, “He has a friend in the Commons now, who has written him that there is also talk about removing smuggling cases from colonial juries and assigning them exclusively to non-juried vice-admiralty courts, and perhaps even trying defendants in London. And his friend reports talk of a stamp tax on documents here, and reordering the customs establishment.”

  Ramshaw cocked his head. “I heard the same talk. Jack, there are now twenty-six colonies in the king’s dominion, but only thirteen worry their lordships, the gentlemen in the Commons, and the merchants.” He sipped some coffee. “We’ve talked of this before, son. The proclamation is only an overture. I do not know how it will end.”

  “It can end in only one of two ways, John: capitulation and slavery, or rebellion and independence.” Jack saw understanding in Ramshaw’s eyes, not shock or dismay. He saw acceptance. He raised a hand and briefly touched his heart. “That is the logic of the matter. There will be no middle ground. The logic will not permit one. No Act of Settlement is possible here, though I know that many well-meaning men will believe it is. But we are either free Englishmen, or Americans, or whatever we choose to call ourselves when the time for decisions comes — or we are not free. Even should the king and Parliament and the Board of Trade and the merchants relinquish their hold on us, separation is inevitable. It already exists. Some here and in London sense it; others know it. Else, why would the king and Parliament and the Board feel it imperative to begin encircling us with laws and troops and boundaries through the ruse of colonial security? And should it come to rebellion, the logic of the matter will allow only two choices to those who possess the power to act against the colonies: a peaceful separation, or war.”

  Jack sighed, and shook his head. “John, I wish it were in my own power to hasten the business, to be done with it. But if the logic leads to rebellion, that must be made in concert with other men, and I must wait for them to see the logic and the wisdom of it. I own that if I acted alone now, this day, or next year, those same men would send me to the gallows, as Redmagne and Skelly were.”

  Ramshaw, at that moment, could not help but remember Jack when he was a boy of twelve and a batman for a master smuggler in Cornwall. He felt an odd paternal pride in the way that boy had turned out, as a worthy heir to his old friend and fellow smuggler, Augustus Skelly. He said, in a low, ominous voice, “Not all rebellions are successful, my friend. Look at the Netherlands, and Turkish Greece, and Ireland. And England itself. The history books are strewn with the bodies of failed rebellions.”

  “The likelihood of failure is not a good excuse for not attempting one. Perhaps we should not be thinking of rebellion, but of revolution.”

  Ramshaw leaned forward in earnest. “Allow me to play the devil for a moment, Jack, and put this to you: I agree that today, or next year, you would be condemned to hang for treason and strung from a pole near the race course that’s just beyond the Capitol in Williamsburg. So, what makes you believe rebellion or revolution is possible? In Virginia, and Maryland, and New York, and Philadelphia, men continue to toast to the king’s health. I have seen no evidence of rebellion in them. A talent for bickering, and for smuggling, perhaps. But for rebellion? No.”

  “It is there,” replied Jack. “The Crown’s likely actions will
provoke it to action, in time.” If men can rally to the cause of that Wilkes fellow in England, graver protests are possible here. I am as certain of that as you are certain of a storm at sea by knowing the nature of the clouds you see in the distance over untroubled waters.”

  Ramshaw nodded, then asked, somehow already knowing the thrust of the answer, “And if a rebellion happens, and it fails? Or if it ends the other way, without a rebellion, but with ignoble submission and slavery: What would you do?”

  Jack shrugged. “Find myself a new maze of caves, perhaps west of the Falls, in the Blue Ridge, and carry on Skelly’s and Redmagne’s careers.” He shook his head emphatically, “I will not live as a fenced-in ‘subject,’ John, permitted no lawful fences of his own against predators, lawful or otherwise.”

  Ramshaw regarded his young protégé with some admiration, and with some sadness. “Wisdom, son: You are rich with it, richer than a Spanish silver mine. But I don’t envy you the burden of it.”

  Jack laughed. “Sometimes,” he confided, “I don’t envy myself for it. But when I am in such a desperate mood, I imagine the alternative — ignorance — and then the burden is not so onerous.”

  The captain laughed in turn. “Spoken without a shred of modesty or vanity! I don’t wonder that the good minister in town detests you!”

  Jack studied his guest with fondness. Ramshaw’s hair was almost pure white now, peppered with the fading black of his youth. The weatherworn face was frozen in an unalterable mask of age, ruddy and beaten by countless gales and winter crossings of the Atlantic. “Every voyage is a lifetime,” Ramshaw once told him. “So don’t be surprised if I grow old faster than you — or not at all.”

  Ramshaw seemed to know his thoughts. He sipped his coffee, and said, “I plan to retire after a few more voyages, Jack, and enjoy my ill-gotten gains. When and where, depends on what those coggers and caitiffs in London do to the trade. You know that I have a house at Great Yarmouth, in Norfolk, and another I rent to a Scots merchant in Norfolk on the Roads here. You also know that I have acquired all the shares of the Sparrowhawk. When I retire, I shall retain some interest in her, but sail her no more.”

  It was Jack’s turn to smile sadly at his friend. “You will miss the voyage, and the grand game with the Crown.”

  “True,” said Ramshaw. “I will miss those things, and much more. Now, you are not my principal client here, but you are my favorite. I should not like to see you at the mercy of some law-abiding master or captain of the Sparrowhawk. I have some candidates as my predecessor in mind. But, as a ship’s husband — and that would require a certain investment — you would have some say in her business and comings and goings.” He paused when he saw his host frown. “I know that you are not as enamored of the sea as I am. But give it some thought through the winter, and we will talk again when I return in the spring.”

  Jack nodded. “This is not to be taken as an answer,” he said, “but, after breakfast, you might do me the honor of showing her to me again. It has been some time since I last trod her decks.”

  Chapter 3: The Soloists

  At the end of the one-week session of the General Assembly in January, Lieutenant-Governor Fauquier felt free to schedule a February concert at the Palace. Friendly and lively company, refined conversation, and music were his ways of escaping the tedious and often risky duties of office, a means of reminding himself that another, far more enjoyable realm existed over which the chores of empire had little influence. He planned, of course, to perform some numbers himself, together with other musical talents who lived in Williamsburg.

  Among the latter was a young law student, a tall, red-headed, lanky lad who was reading law under the wing of George Wythe, the town’s most eminent attorney. This fellow was not only proficient with the violin, but bright, argumentative, and affable. The Governor often invited him to the Palace to sup, to engage in provocative and speculative conversation, and to perform in the company of the town’s other appreciative and enlightened residents.

  His secretary sent invitations to the concert to many of these luminaries, and also to those in the outlying towns. Hugh Kenrick received one, as did Reece Vishonn and his wife. In his acceptance of the invitation, Hugh appended an unusual query: Would His Honor be gracious enough to work into his program some numbers performed by Miss Etáin McRae of Caxton on her harp? “Her impressive repertoire has lately been enlarged by the transcriptions for that instrument — in her own hand, mind you, for she can both read and write notes — of certain pieces of Handel and Gluck, never before heard in these parts. I will vouch for both her abilities and the pleasure they will bring you and your company.”

  The Governor, intrigued, feeling adventuresome, and hungry for the sound of a harp, acceded to Hugh’s request, and letters were exchanged making the arrangements.

  When Hugh visited the McRaes and informed them of the concert, the parents were stunned, excited, and anxious about the event, in that order. When they had recovered, they expressed their gratitude. “If you are not careful, sir,” said Madeline McRae to him privately, “you may win our deepest sentiments — and Etáin’s.”

  Hugh glanced across the drawing room at Etáin, who was talking with her father. “That, Madam, would not be an unwelcome development.”

  Etáin, who was both excited and frightened by the prospect of playing before the colony’s social elite, asked him, “But — what shall I play?”

  Hugh replied, “Some of the new music I brought you. I have seen your notes and heard you play them.” He told her what the Governor had agreed to add to his program. “But be sure to take some other music along, for I believe that you will so impress the company, they will request one or more encores.”

  And, so, on a cold Saturday morning in February, the McRaes in a borrowed chaise and Hugh on horseback wound their way along the frigid road that led to Williamsburg.

  The concert that evening was a great success. In the newly renovated ballroom, Fauquier and other amateur musicians performed a sonata each by Corelli and Campioni, followed by a vigorous rendition of a Vivaldi cello concerto, his four hundred and thirteenth. In the latter, the Governor proved his virtuosity on the cello. At his guests’ request, he performed a solo sonata by Domenico Alberti on the Palace’s new harpsichord, and Peter Pelham, the organist at Bruton Parish Church, played a somber Chabron sonata on a chamber organ.

  After a leisurely intermission, during which Fauquier treated his guests to a generous buffet, the Governor introduced Etáin McRae, “a young lady and prodigy from the fair town of Caxton on the York.” For a hushed and quickly dazzled audience, Etáin, wearing her customary green riding suit and ribbons in her hair, played Handel’s fourth Coronation Anthem, Gluck’s “Dance of the Blessed Spirits” from his opera Orfeo e Euridice, and Boyce’s Hearts of Oak.

  To no one’s surprise, the company requested encores. “I declare, sir,” remarked Fauquier to Hugh, “this wisp of a girl could play the most ruttish tune on that harp and convince God that she was honoring Him with a hymn!”

  “She has that talent, your honor,” replied Hugh.

  Etáin played her own transcriptions of a François Couperin concerto and a Telemann concerto, with the same reception by the guests. They would have requested more, except that the Governor saw that she was tired, and put no more demands on her.

  Fauquier was so pleased with her abilities and with her reception by the company that he presented her with five gold guineas. He spoke with her parents and urged them to send her to London to take lessons — “not that she would need them,” he assured the stupefied father — with a music master of his acquaintance, who taught children from the finest families — “I do believe that some time on a regular keyboard, together with a brush with theory, could only ensure her supremacy in the art” — and added that if and when they were amenable to the idea, he would be happy to write a letter of recommendation to the academy — “and perhaps even contribute something to the expense, if you are not averse to brooki
ng a bit of disinterested charity.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” replied Ian McRae, who managed not to stammer. Madeline McRae nodded gratitude and performed a brief curtsy.

  “Of course,” continued Fauquier, “I cannot guarantee that your daughter will return here for an engagement. As delightful as they are, I do not put on very many of these concerts.” He glanced at the girl across the ballroom. Etáin stood by her harp in a circle of admirers. “But, you may rest assured that if I can fit her in at some point in the future, she will open the program, not conclude it.”

  “You are too generous, your honor,” said Madeline McRae.

  In the course of the evening, Hugh stepped outside to tour the Palace yard with its stables, coach house, and gardens. He heard a step behind him and turned. He was shyly approached by the red-haired musician who had performed with the Governor. He smiled at Hugh as though he were about to address a mystery, or a legend.

  “You are Mr. Hugh Kenrick, I believe,” he said.

  “I am, sir.”

  The light from a nearby cresset flickered over an intense, freckled, eager face that seemed to be struggling with a question. Then the musician said, “I have heard that you freed your slaves.”

  Hugh grinned, uncertain whether he was being congratulated or accused. “I did not free them, sir, although that was the consequence, and the object of my actions.”

  “And you are the same man who built a device to water his crops, and persuaded his town to lay brick walkways along its principal street?”

  “I am the same.” Hugh did not wonder that his conduit was common knowledge, but was startled that the stranger regarded the walkways as a notable item of interest. It had taken the vestrymen of Caxton more than a year to approve of the idea. In exchange for the amenity, they had agreed to exempt Meum Hall from parish tithes for five years. But the refurbished kiln, under brickmaster Henry Zouch’s skillful and productive labors, was earning Hugh more income. Much of the brick was not only being used to repair some of the great houses of Caxton and for the construction of new houses for Reece Vishonn’s married children, but bound pallets of them were being loaded aboard coastal vessels for delivery to customers up the York River and on the James.