War (31 page)

Still, he thought, there was a lineage of thinking that could be traced back to those other friends, the lineage of a quest for the words that would identify what had moved Jack Frake and him all the years of their lives. Hugh was certain that he had found the words. He had written them down. He took from his portmanteau the paper that contained them, and handed it over the desk to Jack Frake. “I have found the words we have been looking for,” he said, not knowing that Augustus Skelly had bequeathed the same task to Jack Frake, but assuming that Jack Frake was in search of the words, as well. “There they are. I wrote them down after I left you in the Caxton jail.”

Jack Frake took the paper and read the elegant handwriting on it:

All the great arguments for liberty, for life, for freedom, rest on one great necessary and ineluctable condition: that one must source oneself, for everything else to have any meaning. God has nothing to do with it. The Corpus Mysticum of royal sovereignty has nothing to do with it. Nor the power of Parliament. Nor even of the Congress in Philadelphia. This is the truth which that body must recognize when it someday convenes to establish a just and lasting polity among us. One owns one’s own life; it is a thing that was never theirs to grant or give, covet, own, or expend; it is a thing never to be granted or surrendered to others, regardless of their number or purpose. That truth is the source of all the great things possible in life.

Jack Frake thought: I have always known it, without thinking it. It was so simple a truth. He had never before encountered that particular formulation of what drove him all his life. Yet, if it was not sensed, and then thought, it could not be expressed. It could be found and expressed only by those who sought it. He remembered all the times when he would sit alone, during moments of peace and contentment and self-possession — before the fire in the Sea Siren tavern in Gwynnford, on a cold, windy beach on the Cornwall coast, waiting for contraband, or on quiet nights on his own
porch here at Morland, and all the other times of untroubled solitude — and the words would hover on the edge of his mind, and seem to dare him to pursue them, but as he turned his consciousness to them, fly away in a playful taunt that nevertheless assured him that, sooner or later, he would find them.

And he remembered the last time the words had not hovered just beyond his reach, but gripped him with a kind of solemn fury, and how knowledge of those unseen words had burned fiercely inside his mind as he retreated up Breed’s Hill in Charlestown, the words drawn there by the imminence of death, as reward for having risked his life in order to preserve it and all the great things possible to it, past, present, and future.

He glanced up at Hugh with a smile of gratitude. “Yes,” he said with a simple nod of his head. “You have found them.” After a moment of quiet elation, he wondered how he could reciprocate the paper in his hand. He looked around at the clutter on his desk. His sight fell on the steel gorget. He picked it up and placed it on the desk in front of Hugh. “You saved my life, too, Hugh.” What else Hugh had done for him, did not now need to be named.

Hugh smiled. Proudlocks had said that Jack Frake would never offer to show him the gorget. But he knew that Jack Frake was making an exception now, not in a vain gesture of boasting, but in grateful tribute. He picked up the gorget and examined the whorl that nearly obliterated
Aude
. How pointlessly ironic, he thought. As ironic as Roger’s death. No, he thought. Roger was there. He said to Jack Frake, “I almost wish I had been there, too, with your Company.” He nodded once in acknowledgement to his friend, then gently replaced the gorget. He pointed to the paper still in Jack Frake’s hand. “That is your copy, Jack. I made one for myself.”

Then they talked of other things, including the letter from Etáin Jack had found waiting for him when he returned from Charlestown. Jack said, “She writes that all they talk about in Edinburgh is war, and how the colonies must be punished. She keeps her own counsel, however, and helps her mother in her shop. Mr. McRae found her a harp, and she practices on it often.”

Their talk turned to the prospects for tobacco and other crops this summer. They went outside and strolled through Morland’s fields together. Jack stopped to inspect the newly planted tobacco transferred from the seedbeds, and the sprouting corn stalks. Then they turned to look at the great house in the distance.

“This is the end,” said Jack Frake. “There is no going back to what it was. What was, cannot be perpetuated, cannot be regained. Should not be regained, or perpetuated, even if it were possible to go back to it.” He paused and looked at Hugh. “You know this.”

Hugh nodded. He was thinking of Meum Hall.

Jack swept a hand over the vista of Morland Hall. “I’ve known it for years. I’ve braced myself for the possibility of losing all this.”

“I, too,” said Hugh.

“When it is over — and there will be an end to it — perhaps I can return here, with Etáin.” He paused. “Somehow, I wish it would not happen. A man likes to live in peace, with his own ambition to move him. But, I’ve had my ambition, and my years of peace. For the time being, they are no longer in my future. We must remove Damocles’ sword from over our heads, once and for all.”

Hugh chuckled. “Actually, it was the tyrant Dionysius the Elder’s sword that dangled over Damocles’ head.” Then he asked, “What will you do now?”

“Perhaps stay long enough to see Governor Dunmore defeated. John and I want to go back north with as much of the Company as will join us and enlist in General Washington’s army. Mr. Robbins and Mr. Hurry can see after Morland — if this place survives the war.” Jack Frake studied Hugh. “And you?” he asked.

“I must stay here,” Hugh answered, “and deal with my uncle’s emissary, the malign Mr. Hunt. Mr. Proudlocks recognized him from his time in London. I am certain that his presence here is neither coincidence nor happenstance.” He paused. “My uncle is my mortal enemy, and Mr. Hunt is his proxy. It is a matter I must settle — once and for all.”

“And after that?”

Hugh shrugged. “Perhaps join you and Mr. Proudlocks, whether or not Meum Hall survives.”

A
s British rule increased its grip and became more and more arrogant in a manner that could not be mistaken for the actions of a benevolent despotism, those who denied that the mother country was not capable of any despotism, together with those who applauded it for the sake of a perishing status quo, faded into the background of obscurity and irrelevance. Many prominent and not-so-prominent citizens of Virginia placed announcements in the two Virginia
Gazettes
stating their imminent departures for England. John Randolph, the Attorney-General, and Richard Corbin, the Receiver-General, bid farewell in the fall of 1775. Peyton Randolph, the former Attorney-General and now the Speaker of the House of Burgesses, completed his chores as a delegate to the second Continental Congress in time to return home and die in October of an apoplectic seizure.

He and Richard Bland, who was now almost completely blind, had charged themselves with the duty of containing the “hot heads” of revolution among their countrymen and leaving open the chance of reconciliation with the mother country. Bland would die a year later. The “old guard” in all the colonies found themselves without a means to enforce their loyalties and without any convincing arguments that would counter the growing conviction that it was not only best to separate from the mother country, but absolutely necessary, if liberty were to be preserved and advanced.

They and their fellow “moderates” and loyalists seemed to be swept away by the hurricane that came over Hampton Roads in early September of that year. It was an apt punctuation mark for the end of an era of accommodation and moderation, and for the beginning of the war.

Other loyalists, embittered and shaken by the spectacle of what they perceived as rampant anarchy and treason, decided to remain and take up arms in the name of a status quo they presumed could be reinstated on the intemperate and reckless among them.

* * *

“My orders were to take the next available vessel from Barbados and proceed
with my battalion to Hampton, where further orders would await me. Well, I am in Hampton, there are no further orders, and I am now in the damnable position of awaiting them, instead.”

“A delicate situation, to be sure, Major Ragsdale,” agreed Jared Hunt. “From whom were you to expect further orders, may I ask?”

“From Admiral Graves in Boston, I suppose. At least, my last communication from him was dated mid-June, two weeks after the captain of the
Hare
notified him of our incapacitation. My further orders will come from Graves, or from the Admiralty itself.”

It was an early August afternoon. Jared Hunt sat with Major Eyre Ragsdale in one of Hampton’s better taverns, sipping ale and dining on cold cuts, and taking refuge from the suffocating heat outside. Ragsdale commanded the 6th Battalion of Marines, which totaled eighty men. The battalion would have arrived earlier, but the frigate
Carlisle
, on its first stop from Barbados, had also transported an army regiment to East Florida to replace two companies of the 14th Regiment, which were sent on to Portsmouth to aid Governor Dunmore. The
Carlisle
, Ragsdale, and his battalion had had to wait in Florida until Governor Tonyn approved release of the regiment to the homeless vice-regent of Virginia.

Ragsdale’s own assigned warship, the
Hare
, had been careened in Barbados to repair its hull, which was dangerously riddled with worm and so smothered by barnacles that the vessel could barely move through the water even in the most favorable winds, rendering it virtually useless as a warship. Ragsdale had jestingly referred to it as the
Tortoise
. The captain of the
Carlisle
had stayed in Portsmouth only long enough to disembark the army regiment. Having heard of Governor Dunmore’s temper and acquisitive habits, he immediately weighed anchor again for Hampton, out of harm’s way. After staying a single night there to restock ship supplies, the
Carlisle
set sail for England the following morning, per the captain’s own orders.

“A disturbing predicament, indeed,” said Hunt. “Undoubtedly, there has been a fouled exchange of signals between Admiral Graves and the Admiralty. It is not good for so fine a unit as your own to lie in idleness, sir, and I am certain that neither of them intends that.” Hunt had watched the marines disembark from the
Carlisle
— one company of regulars and one company of grenadiers. He observed that they did not seem particularly robust. He supposed the Caribbean heat must have sapped much of their vigor. But it never hurt to compliment a commanding officer on the condition of his men, even if they seemed listless and careworn. The battalion in
the meantime had been billeted in an empty warehouse in Hampton.

Ragsdale shrugged. “Their intentions are irrelevant. I am blamelessly idle.” After a pause, he mused, not happily, “I suppose I should report to Governor Dunmore and offer my services for the time being. He is sure to have heard of our presence.”

Jared Hunt blinked once and shook his head. “Not necessarily, Major,” he suggested.

Ragsdale frowned in surprise. “I should think his ear would be alert for the presence of a convent of nuns, if he thought they could help him reestablish order here, sir. Governor Tonyn sent him only sixty men from the regiment down there.” The major scoffed. “They could hardly help him secure Portsmouth, never mind the rest of Virginia.”

Hunt leaned forward and in a low voice said, “I protest the highest regard for His Excellency, however, I do not believe you would want to place your battalion in his hands. Besides, I am certain he is not even aware of your presence.”

“Why would I not wish to serve the Governor, sir?”

“Because he will probably ask you and your men to help coddle all the runaway Negroes who are drawn to his benevolent rule. He is toying with the idea of emancipating them, you see, at least those belonging to rebels, and forming a regiment of Negroes to serve under His Majesty’s colors.” Hunt saw confusion in Ragsdale’s eyes, and leaned back to speak in a more casual, deprecating tone. “
Someone
must train them in the arts of war. I honestly cannot imagine your battalion encamped next to them, for months on end, listening to their blather and exposed to their contagions and ailments, as well. But, what better way to employ an idle force than to train another? I am acquainted with the Governor’s goals, and that will certainly be the bend of his thinking. You must own that you could not relish the prospect of becoming a nursemaid to scamps and slothful fools, when there is fighting to be done.”

Ragsdale sighed. “No, I would not relish the prospect.”

When Ragsdale said nothing else, Hunt shook his head and smiled. “However, I have a better idea. You and your battalion are at liberty, so to speak, and my proposition may be amenable. You see, His Excellency has given me leave to act as a kind of vice-admiral in these parts. I have at my disposal the
Basilisk
, a sloop of eight guns, and the
Sparrowhawk
, a merchantman of twenty guns. Nominally, they are in the service of the Customs, but they can perform the same role of authority as the
Otter
, the
Kingfisher
, and the
William
now under the Governor’s command. It is understood between His Excellency and me that he will secure the James, and I the York.” He smiled. “The
Sparrowhawk
is more than commodious enough to accommodate your battalion, Major. I am planning an expedition up the York soon to aid some patriots in the establishment of Crown authority. The presence of your battalion could not help but ensure the success of that project.”

The major raised an eyebrow. “Patriots?”

“Subjects loyal to His Majesty, of course.”

“Of course.” Ragsdale sipped his ale in thought. After a moment, he said, “Well, it is an idea. I don’t like keeping my men idle. And, there is a rebellion to be put down, and my duty in that regard. My officers and I have speculated about our ultimate destination. We were thinking we might be ordered to Boston. We read reports that the marines with the fleet there were terribly mauled taking that rebel redoubt.” After another moment, he added, “Well, as you say, until I receive further orders, my battalion is at liberty, and I cannot be faulted for taking some initiative when circumstances avail themselves and for employing my fellows to the best advantage. I accept your proposition, Mr. Hunt. When may we embark on this punitive expedition?”

“Soon,” answered Hunt. He had received a message the day before from Edgar Cullis expressing both his outrage over the freeing of Jack Frake from the Caxton jail and the fear of the committee of safety that if they attempted to re-arrest the man, the committee’s own militia — and the only legitimate one in that county — might be obliged to face the independent company “with undesirable results.” It was imperative that the committee establish its authority in the county, but its members did not think that could be accomplished without some support from the Crown.

“Otherwise,” Cullis had written, “we should simply throw up our hands and allow the only remaining loyal county on the York to fall under the influence of renegades and lawless bandits. Mr. Frake’s wretched company of impenitent malefactors refuse to acknowledge our committee’s authority, accuse us of the grossest intentions, and threaten retaliation if we exercise our legal prerogative. For the time being, however, the committee have decided on a less conspicuous action as a more modest step in establishing authority, viz., the closing of the tavern in which the renegades have met and plotted their crimes and treason. But we will not act until we have an assurance from your office that we will be sanctioned and supported.”

Hunt had sent a courier to Cullis’s home with the reply that the
Sparrowhawk
and
Basilisk
would sail in a few days to support the proposed action, and advised the committee of safety not to act until the vessels had tied up at the Caxton piers. “Acting together in unison will doubtless impress upon the citizens of your fair town the permanence and power of Crown authority, and of the many advantages of submitting to it. We should then be able to better deal with those miscreants among the populace who thumb their noses at His Majesty, His Excellency the Governor, and Parliament. I remain your most sympathetic and dutiful servant, J. Hunt.”

* * *

Two mornings later, when John Proudlocks visited Morland Hall, the first thing Jack Frake said to his friend was, “Should you ever open a law practice, John, you won’t collect many fees for patching up things between disputants.”

“On the contrary, Jack,” said Proudlocks, “I could charge disputants for having kept them out of court. I should point out to them that arbitration would be a much less costly pursuit of satisfaction and equity.”

They did not need to mention the role that Proudlocks had played in resolving the conflict between Jack Frake and Hugh Kenrick. Jack Frake merely grinned at his friend’s reticence and persistent imagination.

Jack Frake, as captain of the Queen Anne Volunteer Company, had the day before sent a servant to Proudlocks’s Sachem Hall and to Jock Fraser’s place with orders to assemble the Company this morning at the camp and drilling field that had been established at the far end of Morland’s fields. He wished to advise the men that they needn’t feel obliged to stay in the Company, that they could return to their homes and trades, or join one of the neighboring county militias, or journey back north to enlist in General Washington’s new Continental Army. He would tell them that those who wished to remain in the Company, he would lead, whenever circumstances demanded action.

He and Proudlocks stood together now in the cellar of the great house. Jack Frake held a lantern. Before them was a freshly mortared brick wall that had been removed years ago to add a chamber to hold powder and arms. The plank door to the chamber had been taken off, and the original
bricks carefully restored. Aymer Crompton, Morland’s brickmaker, had also managed to color the new mortar so that it was the same gray hue as the brick mortar on either side of the restored wall. Evidence of the chamber was nearly obliterated. The great house could be destroyed, and its debris collapse into the cellar, but the chamber would remain intact and untouched.

“When was this done?” asked Proudlocks.

“Mr. Crompton finished it this morning,” Jack Frake answered.

Sealed inside the chamber now were not powder and arms — they had been removed to the ruins of the Otway plantation months ago for safekeeping against Crown discovery and confiscation — but objects and records that Jack Frake wanted to preserve and reclaim when he was free to live in peace again: legal documents, deeds, correspondence, some books — his copy of
Hyperborea
among them — pencil and ink portraits of Etáin, Skelly, and Redmagne drawn by Hugh Kenrick, Etáin’s harp and dulcimer, and all of her music paperwork, and some other objects. And his copy of Hugh’s “words.”

The chamber also held a few iron boxes containing gold, silver, and copper coins, specie that he had culled over nearly two decades of plantation business. He wanted to save all those things from seizure or destruction. The specie would help him start over again, once the war ended. And if he lived to see its end.

Jack Frake told Proudlocks what was inside the chamber, then said, “If anything happens to me, you know of the existence of this trove. Help yourself to it, allowing for Etáin’s share, of course.”

Proudlocks nodded. They did not dwell, either, on such an uncertain and perilous future as the end of a war in which they would fight. Proudlocks asked, “What of Mr. Settle, and Mr. Robbins, and the other men here? If something happens to Morland, what will they do?”

“I’ve discussed the possibility with them. If Morland survives, they may come back here, if they’ve not left, and if there is still a Morland Hall to return to. Otherwise, they have all said they will join Mr. Washington’s army, as well.” Jack Frake glanced at his friend. “What of Sachem Hall?”

Proudlocks sighed. “I have buried some money on the grounds. But there are so many books. It would be futile to bury them. They would rot.” He shrugged. “Sachem Hall will need to take its chances, as well. Mr. Corsin will oversee the place while I’m gone.” Enolls Corsin was Proudlocks’s business agent and steward. He had worked in that capacity when
Thomas Reisdale owned the plantation, known then as simply “Freehold.”