by Edward Cline
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.
Hugh did not reply immediately. He studied the man who had once been his mentor in politics, but who had turned against him in incremental degrees as resistance to Parliamentary authority grew. Hugh’s mouth twisted in merciless contempt. “You have reaped here what you have sown, Mr. Cullis.” Then he turned his mount around and walked it away.
Hugh stopped in front of Rittles’s shop, dismounted, and tied his horse to the post there. He walked over to the empty lot to see if he could recognize any of the dead.
Muriel Tippet had found her husband’s body. She sat in the high grass next to it, sobbing quietly. Hugh recognized many of the other faces, men he had known well or been acquainted with. Here was Will Kenny, brother of Jude, who had died at Charlestown. And young Travis Barret, still clutching his fife. Both had survived the ferocity of Breed’s Hill, only to die here. Here was Steven Safford. Two bodies away from him lay Reverend Albert Acland. And, next to him, Reece Vishonn.
He moved on to another body, and with an involuntary exclamation suddenly knelt down next to it when he recognized the face of a man from Meum Hall, that of Champion, who had helped him fashion the pieces of the conduit years ago and had maintained it every since. The face was as black and well-chiseled as Glorious Swain’s had been. The straps holding a powder horn and cartridge pouch crossed his broad chest; above where the straps crossed, his rough shirt had become matted to the blood of where he was struck by a musket ball. Champion had probably come here with his fowling piece, with which he had often gone hunting and brought back game for himself and for the table of the great house.
Hugh could not remember the man having expressed any political sentiments; he had not known that he had anything to do with Jack Frake’s volunteer militia. But he knew that, even before news of Charlestown reached Caxton, there had been talk among his former slaves about which side to join, if war came: the British, because it was rumored that Governor Dunmore might emancipate Virginia slaves who left their masters to rally to the king’s colors; or the patriots, because it was rumored that any slaves who joined them might be declared freedmen.
Champion’s eyes were half open. Hugh reached over and closed them.
Some men entered the lot, carrying two more bodies from the outskirts of town. With them were two marines, carrying the dead men’s muskets. Hugh rose. There was something oddly familiar about the bodies. Hugh held up a hand. The men stopped. He stood between the bodies and lifted the hats that had been placed over the faces. He gasped when he recognized Obedience Robbins and William Hurry, Jack Frake’s business agent and steward. They had been bayoneted.
The marines moved on to add the confiscated weapons to a pile of them across the street. When they were out of earshot, one of the men, a farmer from across Hove Stream who knew Hugh, said, “It’s a terrible sorrowful day here, sir. Will you tell Mr. Frake where his gentlemen can be found?”
Hugh could only nod. “How did these soldiers come here?” he asked.
“They’re not soldiers, sir. They’re marines,” answered the man. “They came on the Sparrowhawk. It’s gone upriver, to do more mischief, I suppose.” Then he and his companion moved a few more steps and gently put down their burden.
“I see,” Hugh said. He stood for a long moment, anguished and angry about what had happened here and what he had seen. Then he turned and walked back to mount his horse and ride back to Meum Hall. He could take no more of it.
As he passed Lucas Rittles’s shop, he heard someone whistle. A narrow, grass-grown alley ran the length between Rittles’s shop and the millinery. Hugh peered down it and saw a figure gesturing to him. It was John Proudlocks.
Hugh strode down the alley, and Proudlocks pulled him behind the shop.
“John!” exclaimed Hugh, holding the man’s shoulders. “You’re…safe! Where is Jack?”
Proudlocks glanced around the corner to make sure that Hugh had not been followed. “He is safe, Mr. Kenrick. He is rendezvousing with what is left of the Company at the Otway place. I left him to come here…to see Miss Heathcoate. But I would be recognized by any of those marines. I know she would be helping our wounded, but I have not seen her out on the street. I cannot risk going into her shop. Perhaps she is too frightened of those marines. Would you bring her to me? Here?”
“Of course, John.” He wanted to ask his friend more about his interest in the woman, but guessed the reason before he could ask the question. Proudlocks could be as discreet as he could be talkative.
Hugh strode back down the alley to Lydia Heathcoate’s millinery, opened the door, and entered. And saw the woman’s body. It was too much. He groaned and sagged against the counter where he and Reverdy had many times chosen fabrics and discussed colors and fashions with the seamstress. He balled his hands into fists and pounded the counter top once. He looked up and saw the broken window glass, which a musket ball must have hit during the skirmish. Then, his expression grim, he lifted the woman’s body, left the shop, and returned down the alley. Proudlocks saw him coming.
“I’m sorry…John.” Hugh had never before seen grief in Proudlocks’s eyes, and did not wish to see it again. Proudlocks leaned his musket against the wall and took the body from him. He gazed at the dead face, then pressed his lips on the woman’s hair. He put her down in the grass, took out a knife, and gently cut a few tresses from her hair, then carefully removed a length of lace from the woman’s cuff. He wrapped the tresses in the lace and put the memento inside his frock coat.
Hugh said, “I wish I could sketch her for you, John. Then you could have that to keep.”
“I will not forget her face,” answered Proudlocks, nodding in thanks but not looking up. He forced himself to rise. “Will you put her with the others, where they are putting the fallen?”
“Yes.”
Proudlocks smiled sadly at Hugh Kenrick. He raised an arm and gripped one of his friend’s shoulders. “You will join us. Meum Hall is doomed, as well. There are hard years ahead of us.”
“Yes,” answered Hugh. “Hard years.”
Proudlocks glanced once again at Lydia Heathcoate, then turned and sprinted away.
Hugh stooped and lifted the body of the woman again, and walked slowly back to the empty lot. When at last he mounted his horse and rode out of Caxton, more people from the outlying parts of the county were streaming into town, to see what had happened, or to determine what had happened to relatives or friends. The last persons he noticed were Barbara Vishonn and a servant in a riding chair, arriving anxiously from Enderly.
* * *
Major Ragsdale had inspected the room assigned to him on the second floor of the Gramatan Inn, and approved of it. His battalion was being billeted in Safford’s tavern and in an empty shop across from it. He had sent for his and his officer’s baggage before the Sparrowhawk departed upriver, and set a lieutenant to work writing a report in the battalion’s daybook. He was coming back downstairs to the tavern below it when one of Jared Hunt’s Customs men saw him and approached. “Major, sir,” said the man, “Mr. Hunt suggests that, if you have the time and when your men are rested, you might want to visit the plantations of two of the rebel leaders. He asked me to show you the way. They are not far.”
“Whose plantations, sir?”
“One owned by Jock Fraser, who is a lieutenant in that militia. And Sachem Hall, owned by an Indian, John Proudlocks, who is a sergeant in the militia. They fired on your men.”
“Oh?” said Ragsdale. “The chap who potted the reverend? That must be him. Well, sir, my officers and I will have something to eat here first, and then we will see to it. You will join us, of course, and inform us what we are to do once we call on these places.” He smiled, looked convivial, and added with a wink, “And, you may a
lso tell us a little about your Mr. Hunt. He is doubtless the most pushing man in service I have ever met, excepting myself.”
* * *
Buell Tragle, master of the Sparrowhawk, ordered both anchors dropped when the vessel was positioned in the York directly opposite Morland Hall, as close to the riverbank as he could manage. There were ten guns on the port side, but only five had crews standing by. Jared Hunt waited patiently while other crewmen secured the sails above and until Tragle was satisfied that the merchantman would not drift from her position.
It was understood between Tragle and Hunt that Hunt was the nominal captain, because the vessel was now Customs property, and that he would command the crew in this aspect of the task at hand. One of the crewmen was a deserter from the navy, a former master gunner who was hired on with a group of unemployed seamen in Norfolk. He advised Hunt of the best way to assault a stationary shore target. Below decks was the ordnance that the vessel usually carried; to it had been added ordnance from a naval depot. Hunt did not need to worry about wasting shots.
One gun was consequently loaded with ball and fired to establish range. The violence of the report made Hunt start and nearly deafened him. Nearby waterfowl rose from the water and flew off, and birds in the trees near the great house swarmed away in confusion. Until now, Hunt had never heard a gun fired before, except in London from a distance, when troops were on parade. He watched closely from the quarterdeck to see where the ball landed. He observed a little puff of dust raised a few yards from the great house and a sapling whip back and forth as the ball came to rest against it. Some figures appeared in front of the house. With a spyglass he had appropriated from Captain Geary, he saw that they were two women and a man. Morland staff, he presumed.
Hunt shouted down to the gunners, “Fire another ball, and hit the house.”
This was done. The ball struck a corner. Some bricks and masonry tumbled to the ground. The figures darted away and disappeared.
“We’ve fixed the right amount of powder to reach the house, sir,” the master gunner shouted up to Hunt.
“Good. Now, gentlemen, try a carcass.”
The carcass, or incendiary shot, took more time to prepare and load. Its components also had to be brought up by powder monkeys from below deck. In the meantime, the crews of the first two guns swabbed their weapons and prepared their own carcasses.
“Fire when you are ready,” shouted Hunt. The third gun was fired. The projectile, a ball to which was attached by iron rings a “sabot” or sealed shoe containing the still glowing embers of wood and fragments of metal heated in the galley, hurtled at half the speed of sound over the water, bluff, and the great lawn. It struck the house below one of the second-story windows, exploding on impact and sending burning material in a short-lived star onto the lawn.
But luck was with Jared Hunt. He did not know it yet; one of the embers shot upward and fell onto the shingled roof of the great house. He could not yet see the fragment and its wind-swept column of white smoke. “Excellent,” he said. “Let’s see how quickly we can set the place ablaze. I won’t leave here until nothing stands but the brick walls. And if we can manage it, not even those.” He stepped down from the quarterdeck and addressed the master gunner. “In the meantime, two of your guns here can lob balls over the house to see if we can bring down some of the out buildings. I want this place rendered useless, fit only for the domicile of beggars.”
“Yes, sir,” said the master gunner. It did not matter to him what the Customs man’s goals were. He volunteered, “These guns won’t reach the fields beyond the house.”
Hunt shrugged. “Major Ragsdale’s fellows will visit the fields and burn them. We will leave the rebel nothing to salvage.”
For the next two hours, the guns of the Sparrowhawk fired incessantly at the great house. Some of the carcasses fell short of their target to land in the lawn’s manicured shrubbery, setting it ablaze. Hunt chuckled when he saw figures rushing madly around the lawn with pails of water, then give up and disappear. But most of the shells struck the house, a few smashing through the windows. Flames began to lick from them on both floors. With a grunt of satisfaction, Hunt saw a fire spread over the roof, and smoke rise from holes made by balls that had pierced the roof.
Hunt considered his task complete when the black rectangles of all the windows on both floors flared red with orange fire. The entire roof was on fire now, collapsing all of a sudden into the house. Hunt noticed some out buildings to the side of the inferno. The kitchen, he presumed. He was about to ask his gunners if they could perhaps land a few shells on them, when the east wall abruptly crumbled and fell onto the structures. He laughed and shouted down from the quarterdeck to the master gunner, “There’s roasting for you, sir! Fine, absolutely fine work!”
The master gunner nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment, then raised his arm and pointed in a direction beyond the conflagration. “Look, Mr. Hunt. This isn’t the only house burning.”
Hunt turned and saw two pillars of smoke over some woods, separated by a few miles. “Ah! Major Ragsdale is roasting geese, as well!”
* * *
It was a hot, humid August evening. The heat seemed to emanate from the fires.
The remnants of the Queen Anne Volunteer Company — reduced by casualties to twenty men — stood in some woods on the Otway place and, across the wide fields abandoned to scrub and weeds, watched the destruction of Morland Hall. They, too, had observed the smoke rising in the direction of Sachem Hall and Jock Fraser’s place.
Jack Frake stood alone, spyglass clutched in both hands behind his back. His men stood behind him at a distance, or rested on boulders or on trees felled by the hurricane that had ruined the Otway plantation years ago. Jock Fraser and John Proudlocks stood apart directly behind him.
Jack Frake’s sight was fixed on what he could discern of the blackened walls and the dying red glow in the shell of the great house of Morland. If he detected movement, he would raise the spyglass to identify it. About an hour before, just as the Sparrowhawk hoisted its anchors and drifted back downriver, he noticed another kind of red moving around the plantation. He saw that it was a company of marines. Soon after their arrival, more fires broke out, in the tenants’ quarters and in the fields.
Henry Buckle, Proudlocks’s cooper, arrived on horseback just before dusk to inform his employer that Sachem Hall had been burned to the ground, the out buildings fired, and the crops destroyed. He added that he had seen a company of marines marching to Jock Fraser’s place. “And Mr. Maxwell the tanner said he saw Mr. Hurry and Mr. Robbins amongst the dead in town,” he said to Jack Frake.
This Jack Frake had guessed, or that they had been wounded or captured. His business agent and steward had rushed to join the Company as it marched into Caxton from the Hove Stream Bridge. He had felt a pride for them when he noticed them then.
“What of Mr. Corsin?” Proudlocks had asked of his business agent. “And the others?”
“Mr. Corsin left in the riding chair for Williamsburg, sir,” said Buckle, “before the redcoats showed up. I saw him take his traveling bag. The rest of our people are making plans to see kin hereabouts, or go west away from such troubles.”
At the moment, Jack Frake looked serene and untroubled. But many in the Company knew better. Proudlocks stepped forward and said to his friend, “That is the end of it.”
Jack Frake at first said nothing. It was the most melancholy statement he had ever heard Proudlocks utter. His friend returned hours before, before Buckle appeared, and other than briefly describing what he had seen in town, remained quiet. Jack Frake knew the quality of the man’s silence. Taking Proudlocks aside, he asked him what was wrong. Proudlocks told him about Lydia Heathcoate. “Mr. Kenrick brought her to me, from her shop. I think she died instantly, when the marines fired on Mr. Vishonn’s men. Her last words to me were that they burned our ensign. And my last words to her were to go back inside the shop, where she would be safe, she would sew another.”
/> Jack Frake could only say, “I’m sorry, John.” It sounded hollow, but was not. Proudlocks knew the quality of his friend’s courtesies.
Now he said, “Yes, that is the end of it.” After a moment, Jack Frake asked, “Will you come with me to check on the staff and tenants? Just you and I. The rest of the Company will stay here with Jock.”
Proudlocks nodded. “Of course.”
After giving orders to Fraser, Jack Frake and Proudlocks crossed the darkened field and cautiously approached the worm fence that divided Morland from the Otway property. They saw figures milling around in the glow of the dying fire in the great house, and in front of the charred remains of the tenants’ quarters, work sheds, and stable. The odors of burnt tobacco and corn hung in the air. There did not seem to be any marines about.
The somber welcome Jack Frake and Proudlocks received from the staff and tenants when they strode together into the open ensured them that they were not risking capture by the marines. Surrounded by the people they had known and worked with for years, all their faces lit sharply by flambeaux and fire, they told them about the fight in town, and learned what had happened at Morland.
There had been only one casualty, Henry Dakin, the cooper, who was in his shed when a ball smashed through the roof. Ruth Dakin, his wife and the housekeeping servant, asked Jack Frake for permission to bury him somewhere on the grounds. He assented. Mary Beck, the cook, and her husband Israel produced the portrait of Etáin, the crystal decanter and glasses, and some of their employer’s clothes they had managed to save from the house. “It was horrible, Mr. Frake,” said the cook. “There was no time to save anything else. Please forgive us.”