by Edward Cline
And Hugh Kenrick suddenly realized that he was one of them. He sat in quiet astonishment at the fact, and knew that he was closer to fulfilling Glorious Swain’s task.
He thought next of Edgar Cullis, who was once a friend. And of Reverdy, who was once his wife. While his mind lingered briefly on Reverdy, he put her and Cullis out of his mind, because there were Dogmael Jones and Jack Frake. And John Proudlocks. And so many men now, men he did not know, but whose words he had read; and those he did know, such as Patrick Henry, men who were rising up to claim their original rights, to overturn or reject a corrupt political system guilty of an enormous abuse!
Hugh laughed to himself for the first time in weeks. He remembered those words well, spoken by Dr. Johnson himself, when he and Dogmael Jones overheard them in a London tavern. What ironic justice! he thought. What gross contradictions in the man’s art and politics! He almost felt a compulsion to write the man a letter and point them out to him.
Yes, thought Hugh. There was much to object to in Johnson’s Preface, and in much of his writing, as well. He disagreed with the critic’s appraisal of Shakespeare, but conceded his observation that Shakespeare had dispensed with the three unities of drama before they had even been invented.
It was as he tossed aside Johnson’s pamphlets that he gasped. The thought shot home in his consciousness and seemed to lighten his very existence, causing him to rise suddenly from the chair as he made the sound. Of course! he thought. The great arguments for liberty, for life, for freedom, rested on one great necessary truth: that one must source oneself, for everything else to have any meaning! God had nothing to do with it. The Corpus Mysticum of royal sovereignty had nothing to do with it. Nor Parliament. Nor even the Congress in Philadelphia. That was the truth which the Congress must recognize when it someday convenes to establish a just and lasting polity, as surely it will convene.
Hugh stood still and retraced the trail in his mind that had led him to the revelation. Why, he had nearly said it himself in his note to Edgar Cullis! “…One’s own life, a thing that was never theirs to grant or give, covet, own, or expend.…”
After a moment, he realized that he was standing, and that he held his hands out, balled into fists, as though he were holding the idea in them, so that it would never escape him again. He glanced again up at the image of Glorious Swain. You knew then the form of the question, but not of its answer, nor did I, he addressed the memory. I wish you were alive to hear the answer! Hugh smiled in salute to the man and the memory.
There was a letter from his sister Alice, and one from his mother. The letters must have arrived shortly before he returned to Caxton. At least the mail packets were still sailing. After he read the letters, he rose from the desk and strode from his study to the breezeway, and then outside. He stepped off the porch, closed his eyes, and turned his head up to let the sun beat down on it. He felt younger, and more vital. The miasma of dread, regret and distress that had governed his thoughts and actions ever since he departed England months ago had suddenly evaporated, and blood seemed to run more quickly through his veins. He stood and watched his tenants reassemble the repaired conduit in the distance. He was sensible to nothing then but the glory of being alive.
He heard hooves pounding to his left, and turned to see Obedience Robbins, Jack Frake’s business agent, riding towards the great house from the town. Robbins saw him and reined his mount around in Hugh’s direction. Then the man stopped, but did not dismount. Hugh did not like the look of urgency in the man’s face.
“Good morning, Mr. Robbins,” said Hugh. “Is there a problem?” He paused. “Have you heard from Mr. Frake?”
“Sir,” said the business agent, “Mr. Frake has been back a day or so! He is in Sheriff Tippet’s jail!”
“What?”
“He was arrested this morning, by Sheriff Tippet and Mr. Roane. He is to be charged with treason!”
“By whom?”
“The new committee of safety, sir!”
Hugh pointed a finger at Robbins. “Accompany me, sir, while I find a mount.”
* * *
As Hugh saddled a horse in the stable and as they rode from Meum Hall to Caxton, Robbins related to Hugh what had happened. “He has been back a day, sir. The Company came down from West Point on a schooner, and were put ashore at the old Otway place. Then they marched to Morland, where Mr. Frake dismissed the men, who returned by the Hove Stream Road to their homes. Mr. Frake was more tired than I had ever seen him, but the first thing he did was read his mail. There was a letter from Mrs. Frake, you see, that he knew would be there. I asked him about Boston, and he said it was a terrible affair. And Jude Kenny, and several men, were lost in it. And as they marched back here from Massachusetts, they were harassed by loyalist bands, too. He asked me about some plantation business, then he retired to his quarters. This morning Sheriff Tippet and Mr. Roane arrived with a warrant from the court. Some armed men from Mr. Vishonn’s militia were with them. It was all by order of the committee. Sheriff Tippet put cuffs on Mr. Frake, took him away on a mount from his stable.”
“Why did you not come to me sooner with this news?” Hugh demanded.
“Mr. Hurry and I have been endeavoring to persuade Sheriff Tippet to release Mr. Frake on bail or bond. I have just come from the jail. But the committee, Sheriff Tippet says, will not grant either. He has been instructed to hold Mr. Frake indefinitely, until a special court can sit.” Robbins paused. “We think Reverend Acland is behind it, sir. He is on the committee. You know what the Reverend thinks of Mr. Frake.”
“Too well, Mr. Robbins. Did Mr. Frake send you for me?”
“No, sir. Mr. Hurry and I just thought you might be able to do something.”
The Caxton jail was a separate brick structure on the side of Sheriff Tippet’s house. It contained three contiguous cells, each six feet wide and deep. A high-walled yard enclosed the cell doors. Each door had a trap at the bottom, through which Muriel Tippet, the Sheriff’s wife, fed prisoners, usually leftovers from the Tippets’ own meals. The doors also had barred openings at head height. Each cell contained a plank bed and a chair. The floors were dirt covered with straw.
When they arrived, they saw Sheriff Tippet standing with William Hurry, Morland’s steward, and George Roane, the under-sheriff, at the gate to the jail yard. Hugh dismounted, tethered his mount to a post, and walked furiously up to Tippet, forgetting that Robbins was with him.
Tippet saw the murderous look in Hugh’s face and braced himself as though he expected to be struck. Before Hugh could say anything, the sheriff said, “It wasn’t my doing, Mr. Kenrick! The committee voted on it, and I against it, but Mr. Cullis signed a court warrant, and there’s the gun that used to stand here that’s missing, too; it’s county property, and I cannot —”
“I wish to see Mr. Frake, Mr. Tippet,” was all that Hugh said.
“Of course, sir,” said Tippet, hurriedly taking a ring of keys from his belt. He turned nervously to unlock the yard gate, then led Hugh inside to one of the cell doors. The other men followed them.
Tippet stopped before the door. Hugh glanced at him. “Open it, please.”
Tippet sighed and unlocked the cell door.
Hugh saw Jack Frake sitting on the plank bed. One of his ankles was manacled with a chain to the cell wall. The chain was long enough to allow him to move around, even outside to the yard. He wore a frock coat — the very one Hugh had seen him wear the morning he departed for Boston on the Sparrowhawk — and his hat sat on the bed beside him.
Jack Frake looked at the men who stood at the door. He saw Hugh Kenrick and smiled. It was not the smile of a man who was glad to see a friend. The gray eyes were fixed on the master of Meum Hall, somber, critical, and wondering.
Hugh Kenrick sensed that something was terribly wrong other than that Jack Frake was sitting in jail. He stepped inside the cell. “Leave us alone, please.”
The other men moved back into the yard. Tippet closed the door, leaving it ajar.
Jack Frake looked up at his friend with sadness and nodded.
Hugh came and sat on the bed beside him. He remembered the time when Jack Frake had once called on him, the evening of the day in Williamsburg he had lied to save Patrick Henry’s resolves.
Hugh studied Jack’s demeanor. “It must have been terrible, Jack. Charlestown, I mean.”
“It was terrible,” answered Jack Frake. “But necessary. We fought well. The Sons of Liberty gave a good account of themselves.” He permitted himself a chuckle. “We’re not all pen and paper,” he mused, recalling Colonel Stark’s compliment. “We were the only Virginians there.”
“Jude Kenny,” said Hugh. “He was killed?”
Jack Frake nodded. He pronounced the names of seven other men in the Company who had died. “Two on the way back, in Maryland. We were ambushed by loyalists. Drove them off. The war is in full tilt, Hugh. There’s no going back. The Congress might try to, so I hear…. ” He shook his head and let the sentence trail off.
“Mr. Proudlocks,” asked Hugh. “He is all right? And Jock Fraser?”
“They came through without a scratch. They’re home. Cletus and Travis, too. A ball grazed Will Kenny’s violin arm. We found a surgeon at Cambridge who patched it up. He had hoped to be buried beside his brother, when the time came. But we had to leave Jude behind on the field.” Jack Frake paused, then rose and paced once in front of his friend. The chain of the manacle dragged noisily through the straw. “Hugh, you may not want to post bail for me, or kill anyone, except me, when you hear what I have to tell you.”
Hugh frowned. It was not like his friend to give warning about what he was about to say. He would simply say what was on his mind, and let his listeners wrestle with the words.
“What?” asked Hugh.
“Your friend Roger Tallmadge is dead, as well. I killed him, during the third assault, as we were retreating up the hill.”
Hugh sat still. He asked softly, “I don’t understand, Jack.”
“He was there, Hugh.” Jack Frake refused to say more, refused to justify himself, or explain the circumstances. He stood looking down on his friend, his gray eyes cruel and waiting.
Hugh sat and tried to absorb the news. He remembered Roger’s last letter. He tried to speak, but his tongue and lips seemed frozen. After a moment, he managed to whisper hoarsely, “How?”
“He was leading a charge to drive us up the hill. I aimed at his heart and shot him.”
“Did you know… it was him?”
“Not until it was too late.”
After another long moment, Hugh asked, “Did he know…it was you?”
“I think so.” Jack Frake seemed to relent. “He faced it bravely, if that is any consolation to you. I know that much. And that he died instantly.”
“He was waiting to go home,” said Hugh, more to himself than to Jack Frake. “He was detained there because he chose to defend your home from the Customsmen, Jack. He could have been court-martialed for that. He did not want to be there…. ”
“He was there, Hugh. He paid the price for aiding the Crown in our conquest. He could have resigned his commission. He couldn’t both sympathize with our cause, and help to crush it, too.” Jack Frake added, after a pause, “He was the enemy.”
“He was my…brother.”
“Am I still yours?”
Hugh did not answer.
“Think what you wish, Hugh,” said Jack Frake with a sigh of finality. “I don’t regret having killed him. Only that he was your friend.”
Hugh rose abruptly, brushed blindly past Jack Frake, and left the cell. He did not stop to speak with the men waiting in the yard. He mounted his horse and rode off at a gallop. Citizens on Queen Anne Street who saw the horseman speeding toward them stepped lively out of his way.
Chapter 11: The Counselors
He sat in the sand near the Meum Hall pier, leaning against a boulder on the beach beneath the bluff. He had ridden here from Caxton because he could not bear to see anyone else. On one hand, he was ashamed of himself for having fled the jail; on the other, he was frankly angry with Jack Frake. He did not then trust himself in the man’s presence. He was more than angry, he admitted to himself; a peculiar kind of rage had welled up in him when the fact of Roger Tallmadge’s death found a place in his mind. He had wanted to strike Jack Frake. But the violence of that action was stayed by a violent revulsion for committing it on such a man.
The rage still gripped him, a rage as hot and glowing as an iron bar from Henry Zouch’s forge. And in the seething turmoil of his emotions he found time and energy to shed some tears for Roger Tallmadge. He was torn between grieving for his friend, and smashing everything in his path.
But now, Jack Frake’s words kept resounding in his thoughts: He was the enemy…. He was there.…I killed him…I aimed at his heart and shot him…. He was the enemy…. He was the enemy….
He knew he should adopt a greater vision of the matter. But the pain was as shattering as what he felt when his friends the Pippins all perished, and Glorious Swain, and Dogmael Jones. And when he knew he had lost Reverdy, once and for all. The pain of loss, and the cruelty of the circumstances of Roger’s death, would not let him think clearly. He knew he must. He sat forward and covered his face with his hands. His world was unraveling. Could he forgive Jack Frake? Could he forgive his own friendship with Roger? Could he forgive Reverdy, or himself for his marriage to her? The sounds of insects, and birds, and the river breezes gradually faded from his consciousness as Hugh Kenrick reached down to the depths of his soul in a desperate effort to quench the heat of the rage.
After a timeless moment, he felt a presence near him. Startled, he glanced up and saw that John Proudlocks had appeared and was sitting beside him, resting back against the boulder. Hugh did not know how long he had been there. His friend held the stem of a licorice plant in one hand and was casually chewing on it. His mount was tethered to a post of the pier, together with his own mount. Proudlocks tossed the licorice stem aside and smiled at Hugh with an oddly lighthearted solemnity.
“I recognized your friend before Jack did, on that hill in Charlestown,” said Proudlocks without greeting or preamble. “I was certain something like this would happen, once we returned. I have known it for many years.” He paused. “Mr. Hurry came to tell me about Jack, after you left the jail. I have spoken with Jack.”
When Hugh looked away and did not respond, Proudlocks said, “The gorget you gave him in Yorktown that morning saved his life, for I am sure the ball that struck it would have found his heart, instead, just as Jack’s shot found your friend’s. You ought to ask him to show the thing to you. I know him well enough that he will not offer to show it himself. You know he is not a boastful man. A British ball struck the hilt of his scabbard, too, smashing the catch and trapping his sword. Not that he ever had a chance to use it, that awful day. There is also a ball hole in the left cuff of the coat he wore then. He did not notice it until I pointed it out to him.”
Hugh remained silent. Proudlocks continued. “I am fond of you and Jack both, my friend, but I am fonder of him, for he gave me life. I will tell you about that someday. I do not ask you to find it in your heart to forgive him. I ask you to find it in your mind, for I have observed this in both of you and in others, and even in myself: that which resides in the heart, must first be sired in the mind.” He paused, and smiled in reflection. “He is a unique man, Mr. Kenrick. So many others carelessly shipwreck themselves on the rock of his soul. Others see the danger, and come about to flee before their own fragile souls are ruptured on its unyielding strength. I am not sure this is the right word for what he is, or what he possesses — a soul. Perhaps it is his spirit,
or character.”
For some reason, Proudlocks’s presence was reassuring and tempering. Hugh had always envied the man’s infectious tranquility. “A spirit, or a soul, or a character,” he mused out loud, speaking slowly, choosing his words, and he spoke more to himself than for his companion’s benefit, “is a man’s cargo of virtues, uniquely and singularly framed.” He was staring at the patch of water near the pier, where Reverdy had stood and waited for him to come to her, a long time ago. He was thinking of her words, and why she had rejected him, twice.
Proudlocks laughed. “Ah! You must settle on a genus among so many examples, but there is a definition not to be found in Mr. Johnson’s Dictionary! My compliments, my friend!” He paused. “Do not flee him, Mr. Kenrick. It was important to Jack that he told you about Captain Tallmadge.”
Hugh glanced at Proudlocks, and thought, “He needn’t have.” And just as he thought it, he glanced away swiftly in self-rebuke. He knew that Jack Frake was incapable of deceit or cowardice.
But Proudlocks seemed to read the thought, and shook his head. “You slander his character with the thought, my friend. And belittle yourself. Jack is no false cambist. He wishes you to remain his friend, on honest and frank terms, as you have always been. He credits you with so much, Mr. Kenrick. As do I. Please credit him with…what is that wonderful word I encountered lately in Mr. Burke’s The Sublime and Beautiful?… yes, credit him with the rectitude.”