War (34 page)

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 tavern 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.

I
srael 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 outnumbered 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.”

Jack Frake smiled. “I am happy that you express doubt about the consequence.” He turned and strode up to Vishonn. “Are your men ready to fire on mine, Mr. Vishonn?”

Reece Vishonn would not look down at his fellow planter. He stared into the distance and stiffened with as much dignity as his back would allow. “I may ask you the same question, sir.”

“We are,” answered Jack Frake. “And if your men are not ready, then you should disperse and disband them. They serve no purpose here.”

“That remains to be seen, Mr. Frake.”

Then they all heard another drum. Two drums.

“Ah,” said Major Ragsdale, “here comes
my
consequence.”

Edgar Cullis, Reverend Acland, and the other committeemen wished it were possible to rearrest Jack Frake. But they would not move for as long as eight muskets were ready to protect him. They were certain that all the other muskets in the Company were primed, as well. And all the members of the “loyal” committee of safety now began to rue their actions here. They sensed that the major was spoiling for a fight, and that the matter might now go beyond what they had planned. They began to wonder whose authority was being imposed.

Jack Frake strolled with apparent unconcern back to his horse, but did not mount it. And with John Proudlocks, Jock Fraser, and the others in the Company, he witnessed the spectacle they had seen at Charlestown.

The grenadiers appeared first over the top of the bluff, muskets shouldered, bayonets fixed. As they made the rise, they quickly formed into a line as broad as Queen Anne Street, ten men across. Behind them followed the regulars. Jack Frake estimated there were about eighty men in the force, exclusive of its officers. They had about a quarter mile to cover before the marines passed the courthouse and came within a few yards of Safford’s
tavern. Jack Frake casually paced back and forth, not taking his eyes off the marines. Major Ragsdale strolled in the direction of his approaching battalion.

Few of the townsfolk had ever seen such a display of military force. Some watched the marines with fascination, others with trepidation. Lucas Rittles and a few other tradesmen stepped back into their shops and quietly locked their doors and closed their shutters. Lydia Heathcoate moved from the door of her millinery, made her way through the crowd of onlookers, and walked boldly up to Proudlocks. “John,” she said, “they burned your ensign. I saw them do it. That brute over there put the match to it,” she said, pointing to Jared Hunt.

Proudlocks nodded and replied, “You’ll sew us another, Lydia. Now, go back into your shop.”

The woman touched a sleeve of Proudlocks’s coat, and obeyed.

Jared Hunt also paced back and forth. At one point, he stopped to survey the faces of the men of the Company. He grunted once, then braved a question. “Mr. Frake, I do not see Mr. Kenrick in your ranks there. I did not know you had a coward for a friend.”

Jack Frake studied Hunt with contempt. “He is a soldier of another kind, and certainly not a coward. Say no more about him.”

“I’ll say what I please,” muttered Hunt to himself as he turned away.

A pair of barking dogs paced the marines. One nipped at the heel of an officer, who took a swipe at it with his drawn sword, cutting its back. The dog ran off, howling.

Major Ragsdale stopped, and nodded to the leading officer. The officer, a captain, shouted a command to halt, relayed by a lieutenant and a sergeant. The formation came to a halt.

“Front rank, charge bayonets, Mr. Crofts,” said Ragsdale.

The captain gave the command. The front rank of grenadiers brought down their muskets with a “Huzzah!” “Front rank, kneel, Mr. Crofts,” said Ragsdale, “second rank, charge bayonets.”

The orders were repeated. The front rank dropped to one knee, while the one behind it repeated the first action. Ragsdale then turned to face Jack Frake and the Company. He saw, much to his surprise, that the militia had silently copied the same actions. He drew his sword. “Now, sir,” he said in a raised voice, “will you order your men to ground their arms and disperse, or shall we have it out here?”

“Leave our country, and we will disperse at leisure, Major,” Jack Frake
answered. He turned to face the Company, and raised an arm as though to give a signal. Jared Hunt and his Customs men, suddenly realizing that they were in a possible crossfire, rushed to join the men on the porch.

But Reverend Acland dashed by them from the tavern porch in the opposite direction and across the street, snatched a musket from one of Vishonn’s men, cocked the hammer, and aimed it at Jack Frake. “The Lord has commanded that I cut you from the flock of the righteous! Begone, Satan’s emissary!” he shouted. He raised the weapon and took a few steps closer to Jack Frake to ensure that he did not miss.

Jack Frake, surprised, turned to face his assailant. John Proudlocks let go of the reins of the horse he was leading away, quickly raised his musket, and fired at Acland.

The ball struck Acland in the neck. The minister’s head whipped to one side as though he had been slapped. His musket discharged, its ball striking a pillar of Safford’s porch. Acland gasped, then gurgled, and fell to the ground.

Everyone but Jack Frake and his men looked dumbly at the body of Acland kicking in its death throes. Proudlocks slapped the rump of the horse, which cantered away, then quickly reloaded.

Even Major Ragsdale looked stunned. Then he frowned, stepped swiftly to one side, raised his sword, and commanded, “Front rank, present firelocks and prepare to fire!”

The grenadiers cocked their hammers and raised their muskets to their shoulders.

“Fire on those rebels!” shouted the major.

In the meantime, Jack Frake and Proudlocks had taken their places. Jack Frake gave the command to the two front ranks of the Company to fire.

A deafening roar came first, then tongues of flame leapt from the two opposing lines. Screams and gasps and expressions of horror followed almost simultaneously. Six of the Company’s men were hit, and four grenadiers. The spectators scattered to find cover.

Most of Vishonn’s militia had crouched to the ground to avoid being hit by the grenadiers’ volley. Reece Vishonn struggled to calm his panicked horse.

Ragsdale quickly ordered the second rank of grenadiers to fire. But because he had not yet informed his officers who were the rebels and who were the loyalists, that rank’s lieutenant ordered his men to train their
muskets on the kneeling loyalist militia he could see through the smoke. He assumed they were preparing to deliver a volley. Ragsdale noticed the error too late to correct it. The lieutenant gave the command to fire. Again the air thundered. Glass shattered and shouts were heard.