by Edward Cline
Major Ragsdale said little. The other Customs men deferred to Mr. Hunt in setting and dominating the subject of conversation. They were joined shortly by Reverend Acland, who had been working in his garden and noticed the vessels. He had quickly discarded his apron, donned his frock coat, and rushed to the Tippet house. He knew what was to happen today, and did not want to miss anything. Mayor Corbin, roused from sleep, followed him shortly thereafter.
Carver Gramatan was alerted to the vessels’ presence by Mary Griffin, his serving girl, who had also seen the vessels arrive. He quickly walked down Queen Anne. After being introduced to the party and apprised by Tippet and Hunt of the situation, Gramatan engaged the major in a separate conversation about the nobility of the English countryside. It was revealed that Major Ragsdale was a distant relation of the tenth Earl of Pembroke of Wiltshire, while Gramatan claimed that his family was “closely related” to two Wiltshire families that had intermarried with the Pembrokes. “For all we know, sir,” said Gramatan, “we may be cousins.” The major rolled his eyes away from this rustic. He took some snuff and wished the man would go away. There is a hierarchy even among would-be bloods.
Then they all heard a drum. The militia was marching into town. The gentlemen all rose and left the house to walk up Queen Anne Street to meet the militia in front of Safford’s Arms Tavern. Sheriff Tippet, his pistol fixed firmly in his belt, asked Jared Hunt, “What role will Major Ragsdale’s marines play in this affair, sir?”
“None, Mr. Tippet,” answered Hunt. “Not unless a shot is fired.” He turned and pointed to the Sparrowhawk in the river. “The good major’s officers watch us.” As they walked, Hunt said, “I have suggested to Major Ragsdale that if his fellows are needed here, they may billet in the tavern.”
Sheriff Tippet shrugged. “If it is closed, I cannot think of a better purpose it could be put to, sir.” He glanced back once at Hunt’s colleagues from the Customs. “What is the purpose of your fellows here, sir?”
“Doubtless a man of Mr. Safford’s character will have contraband to find and seize.”
As they approached Safford’s tavern, they saw that Vishonn’s militia had already formed into two lines across Queen Anne Street from the tavern, muskets shouldered but at ease. Reece Vishonn sat on horseback at the end of the lines, looking very much like a colonel. The “true” county militia numbered twenty men, some of whom were veterans of the last war, and one or two had marched with General Lewis’s forces last fall during Governor Dunmore’s campaign in the west.
Jared Hunt, Sheriff Tippet and the major strode up to Vishonn. Hunt introduced the major, then asked, “May we proceed, Mr. Vishonn?”
“We should wait for Mr. Cullis, sir,” answered Vishonn. In a lower voice, he added, because townsfolk were beginning to collect in curiosity around them, “He has the warrant, and the committee concur that all on it should be present, in order to make a proper impression.”
“Fine idea, sir,” Hunt said. “Let us be proper.”
Major Ragsdale stood a little apart from the group and militia.
As if on cue, Edgar Cullis was seen in the distance to come onto the street with George Roane. A minute later, they rode up to join the tableau. Cullis doffed his hat, and introductions were made. The lawyer then beckoned to Sheriff Tippet, who approached. Cullis handed down a folded paper. “There is your warrant for Mr. Safford’s arrest, which also orders his establishment closed.” He saw the sheriff gulp once. Cullis added with a mocking grin, “The committee will present it together. No need to fret.”
Tippet unfolded the warrant and read it. He nodded, and turned to face the tavern. Several boat hands had come out onto the tavern porch. Edgar Cullis dismounted and handed the reins of his mount to Vishonn. Tippet gestured to Roane to join him. Roane dismounted and tied his mount to a hitching post in front of Lucas Rittles’s store. The five committeemen and Hunt crossed the street and mounted the steps of the tavern porch, followed by the four Customsmen. The boat hands moved out of the way.
The intruders all breathed easier when they saw only Steven Safford, a serving boy, and two patrons in the room. Sheriff Tippet stepped forward, cleared his throat, and announced, “By order of the lawful committee of safety of this county, I am empowered to order the immediate closing of this establishment, and the arrest of its proprietor, Mr. Steven Safford, for having permitted said establishment to be used to harbor conspirators and conspiracies against His Majesty’s authority over the dominion of Virginia.” The patrons glanced at each other, then rose immediately from their table and left.
Before another word could be said by anyone, Jared Hunt turned to his Customsmen and pointed to the door of the Olympus Room. “That is the room where the crimes were committed. Search it.” This command surprised Cullis and the other committeemen, except for Gramatan, who had supplied Hunt with the information about the room.
The Customsmen left the group and entered the room. Safford came out of the bar and walked up to meet the intruders, his face livid. “I don’t recognize your authority! You may leave now, and take those cussed rummagers with you!” He pointed wildly at the Olympus Room.
Tippet proffered the warrant, but with a smack of his hand Safford brushed it and the sheriff’s hand away. “Get away from me, traitor! You are no longer welcome here!”
“I regret to inform you that it is you who will be leaving, sir,” said Edgar Cullis. “You are under arrest, and will be charged with treason. And if these gentlemen find any illegal goods on the premises, you will be charged with that offense, as well.”
The Customsmen returned to the main room. “There was nothing and no one there, Mr. Hunt. All we found was this,” said one of them. The man held the ensign of the Queen Anne County Volunteers on its oaken staff. Jock Fraser had returned it a few days after the Company returned from Boston, so that it stood in its “place of honor.”
Jared Hunt glanced at it, then stepped forward and lifted a corner of the flag.
“The rebel militia carried it to Boston, Mr. Hunt,” volunteered Cullis. “It is the banner of the vigilance club here, the Sons of Liberty.”
“You don’t say,” mused Hunt. He chuckled and nodded to the bullet holes among the red and white stripes. “It would seem that some of our brave fellows at Boston took grave exception to the idea, as well.” He grunted once in disapproval when he read the words in the cobalt canton: Live Free, or Die. He abruptly dropped the corner and ordered, “Take it outside, sir.”
The Customs man obeyed. Hunt went to the cooking fireplace, found a piece of firewood in the stack next to it, lit it in the fire, then walked outside. He took the staff of the ensign from the Customs man and planted it in the dirt at the bottom of the tavern steps, then set fire to the cloth at its lowest drooping point.
All the men, including Safford, stood at the door and watched the flames quickly consume the cloth. Charred brown and black flakes flew out and rose to waft in the air. A breeze blew them and the smoke over the heads of the growing crowd of townsfolk. When the cloth was completely obliterated, Hunt lifted the smoldering staff and tossed it with disdain to the ground. He glanced up at Cullis. “And that, sir, is how one treats treasonous rebels.”
A murmur rose among the townsfolk. Reverend Acland stepped to the edge of the porch and addressed the crowd in his most righteous voice, “It was the device of Satan! It is appropriate that it was consigned to flames!” He pointed at Safford. “Let him flaunt it in Hell!”
Safford, a tall, lean man in his sixties, and a veteran of two wars past, glared at the minister, and stepped up to address him. “You are Satan’s spawn, you foul, miserable boot-lick!”
Acland, his knees suddenly shaking and his eyes wide with fright, winced, gulped, and retreated a step before this attack. He had time to imagine that the fury he saw in Safford’s face was the very visage of Satan himself before Safford raised a fist and struck him on the jaw. Acland did not fall back from the blow; his knees failed, and he collapsed on the porch of the ta
vern at Safford’s feet.
“Wait a moment! You can’t strike a man of God!” Edgar Cullis moved and put a hand on Safford’s shoulder, but Safford turned and struck the attorney, as well, with another well-connected punch on the jaw. Cullis, though surprised, kept his balance and stepped back to avoid another blow.
Before anyone could say anything else or stop him, Safford turned and raced down the steps and jumped on Jared Hunt, knocking him flat on his back in the dust. Safford straddled him and pummeled him mercilessly, shouting, “You cowardly, useless caitiff! Placeman! Parasite!…. ”
The blast of a pistol shot was heard then. Safford jerked up and looked around. He and everyone else but Hunt saw Sheriff Tippet on the porch, smoking pistol in one hand and the rejected warrant in the other, and a look of anguished surprise on the sheriff’s face. Safford’s eyelids blinked several times in rapid succession. Then his taut frame went limp. He leaned to one side and fell to the ground, dead, a ball in his back.
With his elbows and legs, Jared Hunt, wearing an expression of horror — no one present knew of his fear of violence, especially violence he himself had caused in his career — scurried away crab-like from Safford’s still body, not wanting to touch it.
The pistol and warrant dropped from Tippet’s hands. “Oh, God, what have I done??” he wailed, raising his hands to cover his face.
Cullis stopped rubbing his jaw long enough to stare angrily at the sheriff. “Control yourself, man!” he ordered with nervous bitterness. “You did your duty! He was a traitor, and we are saved the pain of prosecuting him!” Then he noticed Mayor Corbin struggling to help Acland to his feet, and stepped past Tippet to help.
Jared Hunt picked himself up from the ground. Blood flowed from his nose and bruises began to form on his jaw, cheeks, and forehead. He stood and looked down with amazement at Safford’s body. He took a handkerchief from inside his coat and began dabbing his face with it, his sight transfixed on the object at his feet. “Hellion!” he muttered.
Major Ragsdale walked over leisurely and stopped to glance once at the body. “My captains will have heard the report, sirs,” he said to Hunt and the group on the porch. “They will come shortly. There will be no more of this silliness.” He glanced with mute amusement at the usually voluble Hunt, stooped to retrieve the man’s tricorn and offered it to him, then turned and walked unconcernedly away, hands behind his back.
And then they all heard the sound of another drum, coming from the direction of the Hove Stream Bridge half a mile away at the end of Queen Anne Street.
Chapter 15: The Skirmish
Israel Beck, Jack Frake’s bookkeeper and secretary, ventured by dogcart into town early that morning to purchase paper and ledger books from Lucas Rittles, who had taken over the miscellaneous stock of the departed Arthur Stannard. He saw the Sparrowhawk in the river drop her anchors, and the Basilisk being secured to Caxton’s main pier. His eyesight, complemented by a pair of bifocals, was sharp enough to espy the redcoats on the deck of the former merchantman. After purchasing his supplies, he rode the dogcart as quickly as he could back to Morland, and found his employer at breakfast.
He stammered the news to Jack Frake. “And they are sporting the Customs Jack, sir! What has happened?” Beck had known both captains of the Sparrowhawk, Ramshaw and Geary, and it seemed inconceivable that the vessel was now in the hands of the Customsmen.
“The inevitable, Mr. Beck,” Jack Frake answered. “Have my horse saddled, then find Mouse and send him to alert Mr. Proudlocks and Mr. Fraser about this, with orders to assemble the Company on the south end of the Hove Stream Bridge.”
“Immediately, Mr. Frake!” The bookkeeper rushed from the supper room.
Jack Frake finished his breakfast. Jock Fraser would have Cletus, who with Travis Barret was employed on Fraser’s plantation, beat the assembly, which could be heard by most of the Company’s members. They all had needed to pass the bridge to reach the encampment at the far end of Morland’s fields, but they would not be assembling there now.
He had only heard a rumor that the Sparrowhawk was seized by the Customs; this news confirmed it. Its seizure and impressment into the Customs service was what he at first thought was inevitable. It brought me here, long ago, he thought, and perhaps now it has come to reclaim me. There was some logic in the matter, he reflected. Not so much irony, as justice. He thought he must write Ramshaw about it.
He glanced around the room, and wondered if this would be his last breakfast here. He looked up at a watercolor portrait of Etáin, given to him by Hugh Kenrick years ago, on one of the walls, and smiled. He had not put it with the other things in the sealed chamber in the cellar, for he wished to have her present in some form. He rose and went to his study to don the sword, steel gorget, and red sash of his rank. He did not look at the bare spots on the walls that had once been occupied by portraits of Augustus Skelly and Redmagne. By the front door of the house he had readied his musket, a pistol, knapsack, and cartridge pouches. He collected these and left the house, making for the smaller house that was home to William Hurry and Obedience Robbins. He told them what Israel Beck had seen, and where he was going and why.
“Marines, you say?” Robbins said.
“A battalion, I’ve heard,” said Jack Frake. “Cullis and his committee are working hand in glove with this Customs man, Hunt. He’s certain to come here on a raid. Or to Meum Hall.”
“Do you think it wise to oppose them, sir?” asked Hurry.
“They must be opposed sometime, somewhere, Mr. Hurry. I don’t know if a show of force will change their minds. I doubt it. Cullis and the committee will want me rearrested, and Hunt will want to retaliate for last summer, when you and Mrs. Frake and the others forced him to retreat.” Jack Frake paused. He had advised all his staff and tenants to prepare to stay or flee if the Crown attempted to invade and seize the county. “The war has begun, sirs, and those who helped to bring it about will be the first to be punished.” Jack Frake doffed his hat, turned, and left the house for the stable.
He rode up the length of Morland Hall’s fields to the Hove Stream Bridge, casting only one lingering look back at the great house and the life he had lived there. He rode past the little plot where his first wife, Jane, was buried, along with his infant son, Augustus. He passed John Proudlocks’s old shack, now occupied by Mouse, Henry Dakin’s apprentice cooper. He passed the brickworks, and the carpentry shed, and the tobacco barn, doffing his hat to the men working in them without stopping to explain. All his tenants saw the sword, and sash, and gorget, and knew where he was going. And if they did not know, they would soon enough.
* * *
“Who is this?” asked Major Ragsdale.
All eyes — those of the Customs men, of Vishonn’s militia, of the committee of safety, of the townsfolk — were turned watching the approaching rival militia as it marched down Queen Anne Street in perfect step, its steady cadence punctuated by a flawless drumbeat, muskets shouldered. Ahead of them, on horseback, rode Jack Frake. As they watched, they saw other armed men racing to catch up with the militia, and others appear from the sides to join the rear rank.
“These are the rebels, Major,” said Edgar Cullis, stepping down from the porch to join. “The riding man is their chief, Jack Frake. He took those villains to Boston. They were at Charlestown.”
“I see,” sighed the major. “Well, if they wish to cause a commotion, I’m certain my marines can chastise them. They look so…pathetic.”
Cullis felt that the major had slighted him as well as the approaching militia. A little rush of resentment welled up in him, enough to cause him to reply, “I hear they fought well at Charlestown, Major. They were the only Virginians there. I would not dismiss them as harmless.”
The major merely pursed his lips at this unexpected rebuke.
Cullis glanced at Reece Vishonn, the only other person on horseback. The planter turned colonel looked nervous, and fiddled with the reins of his mount. His “loyal” militia was outnumber
ed two to one. Every man in it appeared apprehensive.
The townsfolk who had gathered on that side of the tableau moved out of the way of the Queen Anne Volunteer Company to stand on the sides. When the Company was about ten yards from Vishonn’s men, Jack Frake held up a hand. Jock Fraser ordered the Company to halt. The drumbeat stopped, and so did the Company.
Jack Frake sat in the saddle for a moment to take in the situation. His sight roamed critically over everything and everyone. It stopped on the body of Steven Safford lying near the foot of the tavern steps. He glanced back at Jock Fraser. “First rank, charge muskets, Mr. Fraser,” he said.
Jock Fraser, after a moment’s pause, relayed the order. The eight men in the first rank silently swung down their muskets and held them at the ready.
Jack Frake dismounted. John Proudlocks, musket in hand, rushed from the second rank and held the reins of the horse.
Jack Frake, carrying his own musket, walked forward to see whose body lay on the ground. Jared Hunt and his Customs men moved away. When he saw who it was, Jack Frake asked, “Who did this?”
“Sheriff Tippet,” answered Cullis, “in conformance with his duty, when Mr. Safford went berserk and attacked not only Mr. Hunt, but also Reverend Acland and me. We are here to close his place and arrest him for contributing to your own treason.”
Jack Frake turned and saw the sheriff on the porch. Tippet averted his glance and stared at the porch floorboards. Jack Frake said, “You were arresting him and closing his tavern. Of course, he would go berserk.”
“You, sir,” said Ragsdale, “will order your men to ground their arms and disperse.”
Jack Frake addressed the officer. “With what consequence, if I do not, sir?”
Major Ragsdale shrugged and nodded at Vishonn. “Then your countryman there may ask his men to persuade you of the consequence.”