War (35 page)

Half of the loyalist militia never rose again, but rolled over where they had crouched, dead or wounded. The survivors jumped up and ran, many tossing their weapons to the ground. Not one of them stopped long enough to notice that their colonel had toppled from his horse, dead. Vishonn’s horse, a fine thoroughbred the planter had purchased in Fairfax, fled with the loyalists, balls in its haunch and neck.

The grenadiers reloaded. When the lingering smoke had cleared enough for him to see through it, Ragsdale grimaced when he saw the carnage dealt on the loyalists. He also saw that the opposing militia were gone. “Mr. Crofts, Mr. Selwyn!” he shouted to his captains, “flanking parties on both sides! Now! They think they’re going to pull a Concord road on us!”

Half a company of grenadiers and half a company of regulars instantly broke ranks and swept to both sides of the street. Already Jack Frake’s men were firing from behind the houses and shops that lined it. They were immediately engaged in running firefights with the flankers who dived into their task to rout the militiamen.

Ragsdale ordered the remaining marines to rise and advance with bayonets leveled. He beckoned to a corporal and ordered him to return to the
Sparrowhawk
to summon the surgeon. The corporal took off in a trot.

As they came upon the fallen loyalists, the major pointed to them with his sword. “Never mind these fellows,” he said, “they were here to oppose the rebels. But any rebel ahead of us who shows life, finish him and show no mercy! They show us none!” Three of the Company who were wounded and unable to move were subsequently bayoneted by the grenadiers. Ragsdale came upon the body of Reece Vishonn, shook his head in disgust, and glanced at the men on the porch, who were all on their stomachs. All except Sheriff Tippet, who sat on the steps, bawling. Edgar Cullis got to his feet, looking appalled. Carver Gramatan and Mayor Corbin also rose. Jared Hunt and his Customsmen remained on their stomachs, waiting until they were absolutely certain they would not be mistaken for rebels.

As the marines marched past the tavern, Cullis stepped down from the porch in a daze of disbelief, walking awkwardly like an infant, unsure of his steps, and unsure if he wanted to take them. He looked down at the bodies of all the men he had known, known for years. Some had voted for
him in past elections. One had been a client who had recently hired him over a surveying dispute with a neighbor. He stood for a moment over Reverend Acland, then over Reece Vishonn.

Oblivious to the musketry around the town, he glanced up and noticed the broken glass of Lydia Heathcoate’s millinery. He swallowed once, and crept inside the shop. The woman lay dead on the floor. A grenadier’s ball had struck her in the breast. Her eyes were still open, and seemed to stare back up at him in accusation. He left the shop and sat on the edge of the brick sidewalk that Hugh Kenrick had donated to the town years ago. Ten of Vishonn’s men lay before him, dead or wounded. Cullis sat there, unable to cry or feel anything. All he could do was blink in incomprehension.

When they saw townsfolk venturing out again, and that the marines had gone far up the street, Jared Hunt finally rose with his Customs men. He sniffed once as his sight roamed over the carnage. He glanced down with disdain at Sheriff Tippet, and scoffed in mockery at the sight of Cullis immobilized in front of the millinery. Then he turned and said to one of his men. “So, this is how they want it! Return to the
Sparrowhawk!
Tell Mr. Tragle to prepare to go up river. We will be by presently, after I have apprised Major Ragsdale of my plan.” He smiled. “I will destroy Morland Hall!”

J
ared Hunt searched for Jack Frake among the dead and wounded strewn on Queen Anne Street. He was not to be found. It meant that the man was still free to harass and snipe at the Crown. He was also disappointed that Hugh Kenrick had not been present.

In time, the musket fire around the town lessened, then ceased altogether. Hunt and his men wandered around the outskirts in search of Jack Frake. They found a few more bodies of the rebels, but not that of Jack Frake. They returned to Queen Anne Street. Major Ragsdale reappeared at the head of a platoon of marines, while the remaining marines drifted back to the street in groups and reformed under the direction of their sergeants and officers. Some redcoats were collecting the dropped arms of the dead, wounded, and deserters alike. Hunt intercepted Ragsdale and told him what he planned to do next. The major was indifferent to the Customs man’s purposes, but he would cooperate in any venture to enforce Crown law and authority.

They stood in the street outside Safford’s tavern. Hunt nodded to what remained of the county committee of safety. Mayor Corbin and Carver Gramatan were helping Edgar Cullis to his feet. Sheriff Tippet was not to be seen. “Not much authority left here to assert, Major,” remarked Hunt, “excepting our own.” With a chuckle, he nodded to Cullis. “That man is in need of some smelling salts. I suppose he thought authority would come as a plate of bloodless mutton.” He gestured to the scene at large. “Well, the tavern is closed, as they wanted, and its proprietor arrested for all eternity!”

The major sheathed his sword. “Where do you think the rebels fled to, Mr. Hunt?”

“Possibly into neighboring counties, Major. I don’t believe any of them would be foolhardy to return to their homes.”

The major cast a speculative glance at the body of Albert Acland. “I was quite astounded when one of those villains potted Reverend Acland,” he volunteered unexpectedly. “Not that the reverend was a wholesome fellow to know. I saw the signs. He reminded me of my father, who was a minister, as well, and quite intolerably righteous. There is a certain kind of
righteousness that means no good, not to anyone. Still, I knew at that moment that I must do my duty, and bring force to bear.”

Jared Hunt was, for once, amazed. “But, Major, the good man was about to pot Mr. Frake.”

“Well, Mr. Frake must have done some unforgivably wicked thing in the past to so aggravate the fellow. He did call him Satan, as nearly as offensive an utterance as taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

One of his rare pensive moods gripped Hunt, and he considered the problem. Then he shook his head. “No, Major,” he said. “I don’t believe that Mr. Frake did anything to aggravate the reverend. I do believe it was simply a matter that Mr. Frake…was.” He paused. “I understand from my informants here that the reverend’s animosity for Mr. Frake was as old as their acquaintance. And, as it turned out, fatal.” Hunt had sensed where his thinking was leading him, which was to a vaguely perilous knowledge that he shared that animosity. He snapped his mind away from the thought.

Then they heard a muffled shot from inside Safford’s tavern. A lieutenant and some regulars on the porch rushed inside. Ragsdale, Hunt, and the Customs men followed.

On the floor, near one of the tables, they saw the body of Sheriff Cabal Tippet, and a smoking pistol beside it, its trigger guard still holding the index finger that had pressed the trigger. In the back of the room, Safford’s serving boy sat pressed against the wall, his eyes wide in trauma. They did not know if the boy’s condition was a result of witnessing the battle, or the suicide.

Hunt said, without a trace of remorse, “I guess the good sheriff blamed himself for the affair. Never heard a man weep as much as he did.”

The subject did not interest the major. He had no sympathy for crying men. He appraised the room they stood in. “This will make a suitable billet for my men. We can turn that room your fellows searched into a hospital of sorts for my wounded. The surgeon should be here soon.” He sighed. “I expect we will be here for a while. I must find quarters for myself and my officers.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Hunt. “Here comes your likely host!”

Carver Gramatan entered the room with George Roane. They saw Tippet’s body. Roane stared open-mouthed at his superior, then ran from the room. With a great sigh of sorrow and tiredness, Gramatan moved away and sat down in one of the tavern chairs and worried his chin with a shaking hand. Then he looked at Hunt and asked, “What’s to be done now,
Mr. Hunt?”

Hunt permitted himself a laugh. “You are a reduced committee, sir, but I don’t see why you may not assert some authority here.” He paused. “I suppose you can set up shop in the courthouse.”

“Until you do,” added Ragsdale, “consider this town under martial law. I shall endeavor to make our presence as painless as possible.” He smiled. “My officers and I will need rooms. I hope you may accommodate us.” He paused, and seemed to remember something. “Oh, yes. My gravest apologies for firing on your own militia, Mr. Gramatan. In the heat of battle, these kinds of things may happen. But, it seems that this Mr. Frake was right, at least about one thing. Your militia served no purpose here today, except as a luckless obstruction.”

* * *

Hugh Kenrick said to Hulton, “When I purchased this place, it was in a state of advanced decrepitude, like a merchantman trapped in the Godwin Sands, subject to the indignities of pilferage and decay. Many planters hereabouts now consider it the mode of perfect business.” They stood in the middle of Meum Hall’s fields, next to the bamboo conduit. After breakfast, Hugh invited the former sergeant and valet to accompany him on a tour of the plantation.

Hulton was especially impressed with the conduit. “What an odd contrivance, sir,” he remarked. “But I am sure its novelty is umbraged by its utility.”

Hugh laughed. “What a superb choice of words, Hulton! You have much improved since we met last.”

“I have been reading many books, sir,” answered Hulton with pride.

It was at that moment that they heard the first volleys between the marines and the militia. Hugh Kenrick had only heard their like years ago, when watching George the Second review troops in London, and was uncertain of their cause. Hulton, however, knew the sound all too well.

“What the devil…?” exclaimed Hugh.

“It is a battle, sir,” replied Hulton simply.

Tenants of Meum Hall had also heard the musketry. Many of them paused in their work to look in the direction of Caxton.

After a moment, Hugh said as he strode back to the great house, “Come, Hulton. I must investigate this. You will stay here. If Governor
Dunmore has raided the town with soldiers — and I have heard that half a regiment has been loaned him from Florida — you would be at risk.”

“This is true, sir,” said Hulton, following. “If discovered, I would be flogged, or hanged by my thumbs…or hanged.”

When Hugh had saddled a horse in the stable and mounted it, the former sergeant said, “Take care, sir.”

Hugh had not gone far along the narrow road to Caxton when he encountered men fleeing from the town. From them he learned what had happened. “And Mr. Frake?” he asked.

“He is unhurt, sir,” said one of the men. “We are to reassemble elsewhere, and continue the fight.” The man paused long enough to say, “Mr. Safford is dead, sir. He was shot by Sheriff Tippet, who was there to close the tavern. And Reverend Acland took a musket from one of Mr. Vishonn’s men and tried to shoot Mr. Frake. Mr. Proudlocks shot him, instead. That is what started it. And then the soldiers thought Mr. Vishonn’s men were with us, and fired on them, too.” Then the volunteer turned and ran off in the direction of Morland Hall.

Hugh Kenrick’s heart sank as he rode into the town and saw the aftermath of the skirmish. Townsfolk were occupied collecting the bodies of the fallen into one place, in an empty lot next to Lucas Rittles’s shop. Some of the wounded men from Vishonn’s militia were being treated by the town’s barber, who had some surgical skills. The bodies of some dead marines were collected on the other side of the street. He saw marine pickets posted every twenty yards along Queen Anne Street. Marines swarmed in and out of Safford’s tavern. He saw Muriel Tippet rushing up the street from the bluff with George Roane. They were stopped at the door of the tavern by a guard, who told them that the sheriff’s body had been taken across the street to the empty lot.

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.