Empire (3 page)

“He suspects, but does not inquire.” Jack paused. Mrs. Beck came in with a tray holding their breakfasts.

When she was gone, Ramshaw asked, “How does he fare?”

“His father owns a bank, and you know that he also has a busy commerce. Hugh is paid in specie — not necessarily in sterling — just as you pay me, in violation of another law. Otherwise, he would be in as great a debt as any of the other planters here.” Jack chuckled. “Between us, he and I are largely responsible for any coin you may see changing hands in Caxton.”

“He is a good and wise lad.”

“And a friend.” Jack took a mouthful from his plate, then said, “He has a friend in the Commons now, who has written him that there is also talk about removing smuggling cases from colonial juries and assigning them exclusively to non-juried vice-admiralty courts, and perhaps even trying defendants in London. And his friend reports talk of a stamp tax on documents here, and reordering the customs establishment.”

Ramshaw cocked his head. “I heard the same talk. Jack, there are now twenty-six colonies in the king’s dominion, but only thirteen worry their lordships, the gentlemen in the Commons, and the merchants.” He sipped some coffee. “We’ve talked of this before, son. The proclamation is only an overture. I do not know how it will end.”

“It can end in only one of two ways, John: capitulation and slavery, or rebellion and independence.” Jack saw understanding in Ramshaw’s eyes, not shock or dismay. He saw acceptance. He raised a hand and briefly touched his heart. “That is the logic of the matter. There will be no middle ground. The logic will not permit one. No Act of Settlement is possible here, though I know that many well-meaning men will believe it is. But we are either free Englishmen, or Americans, or whatever we choose to call ourselves when the time for decisions comes — or we are not free. Even should the king and Parliament and the Board of Trade and the merchants relinquish their hold on us, separation is inevitable. It already exists. Some here and in London sense it; others know it. Else, why would the king and Parliament and the Board feel it imperative to begin encircling us with laws and troops and boundaries through the ruse of colonial security? And should it come to rebellion, the logic of the matter will allow only two choices to those who possess the power to act against the colonies: a peaceful separation, or war.”

Jack sighed, and shook his head. “John, I wish it were in my own
power to hasten the business, to be done with it. But if the logic leads to rebellion,
that
must be made in concert with other men, and I must wait for them to see the logic and the wisdom of it. I own that if I acted alone now, this day, or next year, those same men would send me to the gallows, as Redmagne and Skelly were.”

Ramshaw, at that moment, could not help but remember Jack when he was a boy of twelve and a batman for a master smuggler in Cornwall. He felt an odd paternal pride in the way that boy had turned out, as a worthy heir to his old friend and fellow smuggler, Augustus Skelly. He said, in a low, ominous voice, “Not all rebellions are successful, my friend. Look at the Netherlands, and Turkish Greece, and Ireland. And England itself. The history books are strewn with the bodies of failed rebellions.”

“The likelihood of failure is not a good excuse for not attempting one. Perhaps we should not be thinking of rebellion, but of revolution.”

Ramshaw leaned forward in earnest. “Allow me to play the devil for a moment, Jack, and put this to you: I agree that today, or next year, you would be condemned to hang for treason and strung from a pole near the race course that’s just beyond the Capitol in Williamsburg. So, what makes you believe rebellion or revolution is possible? In Virginia, and Maryland, and New York, and Philadelphia, men continue to toast to the king’s health. I have seen no evidence of rebellion in them. A talent for bickering, and for smuggling, perhaps. But for rebellion? No.”

“It is there,” replied Jack. “The Crown’s likely actions will provoke it to action, in time.” If men can rally to the cause of that Wilkes fellow in England, graver protests are possible here. I am as certain of that as you are certain of a storm at sea by knowing the nature of the clouds you see in the distance over untroubled waters.”

Ramshaw nodded, then asked, somehow already knowing the thrust of the answer, “And if a rebellion happens, and it fails? Or if it ends the other way, without a rebellion, but with ignoble submission and slavery: What would
you
do?”

Jack shrugged. “Find myself a new maze of caves, perhaps west of the Falls, in the Blue Ridge, and carry on Skelly’s and Redmagne’s careers.” He shook his head emphatically, “I will
not
live as a fenced-in ‘subject,’ John, permitted no lawful fences of his own against predators, lawful or otherwise.”

Ramshaw regarded his young protégé with some admiration, and with some sadness. “Wisdom, son: You are rich with it, richer than a Spanish silver mine. But I don’t envy you the burden of it.”

Jack laughed. “Sometimes,” he confided, “I don’t envy myself for it. But when I am in such a desperate mood, I imagine the alternative — ignorance — and then the burden is not so onerous.”

The captain laughed in turn. “Spoken without a shred of modesty
or
vanity! I don’t wonder that the good minister in town detests you!”

Jack studied his guest with fondness. Ramshaw’s hair was almost pure white now, peppered with the fading black of his youth. The weatherworn face was frozen in an unalterable mask of age, ruddy and beaten by countless gales and winter crossings of the Atlantic. “Every voyage is a lifetime,” Ramshaw once told him. “So don’t be surprised if I grow old faster than you — or not at all.”

Ramshaw seemed to know his thoughts. He sipped his coffee, and said, “I plan to retire after a few more voyages, Jack, and enjoy my ill-gotten gains. When and where, depends on what those coggers and caitiffs in London do to the trade. You know that I have a house at Great Yarmouth, in Norfolk, and another I rent to a Scots merchant in Norfolk on the Roads here. You also know that I have acquired all the shares of the
Sparrowhawk
. When I retire, I shall retain some interest in her, but sail her no more.”

It was Jack’s turn to smile sadly at his friend. “You will miss the voyage, and the grand game with the Crown.”

“True,” said Ramshaw. “I will miss those things, and much more. Now, you are not my principal client here, but you are my favorite. I should not like to see you at the mercy of some law-abiding master or captain of the
Sparrowhawk
. I have some candidates as my predecessor in mind. But, as a ship’s husband — and that would require a certain investment — you would have some say in her business and comings and goings.” He paused when he saw his host frown. “I know that you are not as enamored of the sea as I am. But give it some thought through the winter, and we will talk again when I return in the spring.”

Jack nodded. “This is not to be taken as an answer,” he said, “but, after breakfast, you might do me the honor of showing her to me again. It has been some time since I last trod her decks.”

A
t the end of the one-week session of the General Assembly in January, Lieutenant-Governor Fauquier felt free to schedule a February concert at the Palace. Friendly and lively company, refined conversation, and music were his ways of escaping the tedious and often risky duties of office, a means of reminding himself that another, far more enjoyable realm existed over which the chores of empire had little influence. He planned, of course, to perform some numbers himself, together with other musical talents who lived in Williamsburg.

Among the latter was a young law student, a tall, red-headed, lanky lad who was reading law under the wing of George Wythe, the town’s most eminent attorney. This fellow was not only proficient with the violin, but bright, argumentative, and affable. The Governor often invited him to the Palace to sup, to engage in provocative and speculative conversation, and to perform in the company of the town’s other appreciative and enlightened residents.

His secretary sent invitations to the concert to many of these luminaries, and also to those in the outlying towns. Hugh Kenrick received one, as did Reece Vishonn and his wife. In his acceptance of the invitation, Hugh appended an unusual query: Would His Honor be gracious enough to work into his program some numbers performed by Miss Etáin McRae of Caxton on her harp? “Her impressive repertoire has lately been enlarged by the transcriptions for that instrument — in her own hand, mind you, for she can both read and write notes — of certain pieces of Handel and Gluck, never before heard in these parts. I will vouch for both her abilities and the pleasure they will bring you and your company.”

The Governor, intrigued, feeling adventuresome, and hungry for the sound of a harp, acceded to Hugh’s request, and letters were exchanged making the arrangements.

When Hugh visited the McRaes and informed them of the concert, the parents were stunned, excited, and anxious about the event, in that order.
When they had recovered, they expressed their gratitude. “If you are not careful, sir,” said Madeline McRae to him privately, “you may win our deepest sentiments — and Etáin’s.”

Hugh glanced across the drawing room at Etáin, who was talking with her father. “That, Madam, would not be an unwelcome development.”

Etáin, who was both excited and frightened by the prospect of playing before the colony’s social elite, asked him, “But — what shall I play?”

Hugh replied, “Some of the new music I brought you. I have seen your notes and heard you play them.” He told her what the Governor had agreed to add to his program. “But be sure to take some other music along, for I believe that you will so impress the company, they will request one or more encores.”

And, so, on a cold Saturday morning in February, the McRaes in a borrowed chaise and Hugh on horseback wound their way along the frigid road that led to Williamsburg.

The concert that evening was a great success. In the newly renovated ballroom, Fauquier and other amateur musicians performed a sonata each by Corelli and Campioni, followed by a vigorous rendition of a Vivaldi cello concerto, his four hundred and thirteenth. In the latter, the Governor proved his virtuosity on the cello. At his guests’ request, he performed a solo sonata by Domenico Alberti on the Palace’s new harpsichord, and Peter Pelham, the organist at Bruton Parish Church, played a somber Chabron sonata on a chamber organ.

After a leisurely intermission, during which Fauquier treated his guests to a generous buffet, the Governor introduced Etáin McRae, “a young lady and prodigy from the fair town of Caxton on the York.” For a hushed and quickly dazzled audience, Etáin, wearing her customary green riding suit and ribbons in her hair, played Handel’s fourth
Coronation Anthem
, Gluck’s “Dance of the Blessed Spirits” from his opera
Orfeo e Euridice
, and Boyce’s
Hearts of Oak
.

To no one’s surprise, the company requested encores. “I declare, sir,” remarked Fauquier to Hugh, “this wisp of a girl could play the most ruttish tune on that harp and convince God that she was honoring Him with a hymn!”

“She has that talent, your honor,” replied Hugh.

Etáin played her own transcriptions of a François Couperin concerto and a Telemann concerto, with the same reception by the guests. They would have requested more, except that the Governor saw that she was
tired, and put no more demands on her.

Fauquier was so pleased with her abilities and with her reception by the company that he presented her with five gold guineas. He spoke with her parents and urged them to send her to London to take lessons — “not that she would need them,” he assured the stupefied father — with a music master of his acquaintance, who taught children from the finest families — “I do believe that some time on a regular keyboard, together with a brush with theory, could only ensure her supremacy in the art” — and added that if and when they were amenable to the idea, he would be happy to write a letter of recommendation to the academy — “and perhaps even contribute something to the expense, if you are not averse to brooking a bit of disinterested charity.”

“Thank you, your honor,” replied Ian McRae, who managed not to stammer. Madeline McRae nodded gratitude and performed a brief curtsy.

“Of course,” continued Fauquier, “I cannot guarantee that your daughter will return
here
for an engagement. As delightful as they are, I do not put on very many of these concerts.” He glanced at the girl across the ballroom. Etáin stood by her harp in a circle of admirers. “But, you may rest assured that if I can fit her in at some point in the future, she will open the program, not conclude it.”

“You are too generous, your honor,” said Madeline McRae.

In the course of the evening, Hugh stepped outside to tour the Palace yard with its stables, coach house, and gardens. He heard a step behind him and turned. He was shyly approached by the red-haired musician who had performed with the Governor. He smiled at Hugh as though he were about to address a mystery, or a legend.

“You are Mr. Hugh Kenrick, I believe,” he said.

“I am, sir.”

The light from a nearby cresset flickered over an intense, freckled, eager face that seemed to be struggling with a question. Then the musician said, “I have heard that you freed your slaves.”

Hugh grinned, uncertain whether he was being congratulated or accused. “I did not free them, sir, although that was the consequence, and the object of my actions.”

“And you are the same man who built a device to water his crops, and persuaded his town to lay brick walkways along its principal street?”

“I am the same.” Hugh did not wonder that his conduit was common knowledge, but was startled that the stranger regarded the walkways as a
notable item of interest. It had taken the vestrymen of Caxton more than a year to approve of the idea. In exchange for the amenity, they had agreed to exempt Meum Hall from parish tithes for five years. But the refurbished kiln, under brickmaster Henry Zouch’s skillful and productive labors, was earning Hugh more income. Much of the brick was not only being used to repair some of the great houses of Caxton and for the construction of new houses for Reece Vishonn’s married children, but bound pallets of them were being loaded aboard coastal vessels for delivery to customers up the York River and on the James.

“You are a man of many radical parts,” commented the musician. “You are also a planter, are you not?”

Hugh nodded. “Yes. I am master of Meum Hall.”

“‘Meum Hall,’” mused the young man. “‘My hall,’ or ‘My home.’ I like it. Someday, I hope to have a chance to name my own abode.”

“A proper name for one’s home deserves as much serious thought as the name of a child, or the title of a book.” Hugh studied the face and figure of the musician, who seemed to be the same age as he.

“It is a distinctive name.” The stranger paused. “I have also heard that you are the son of a baron, and the nephew of an earl.”

Hugh said, “I neither advertise nor exploit those facts, sir.”

“May I ask why not?”

“They are more a burden than a benefit, if truth be known. I have always striven to escape their influence.”

The musician commented on the success of the concert, and praised Etáin McRae. The two men talked for a while on that subject. At length, Hugh said, “Although I helped her choose her music, it occurred to me this evening that Mr. Handel’s
Coronation Anthem
seemed an inappropriate piece to perform at this time.”

“I had not heard it until this evening,” said the musician. “It is mainly choral, is it not?”

Hugh nodded. “With a proper orchestra. I heard it performed once in London, at the King’s Theater, not long ago.”

“Then it must have a libretto, a spoken leitmotif.”

“Yes,” said Hugh. “‘Let thy hand be strengthened…Let thy right hand be exalted.’ There are more lines that concern justice, mercy, judgment, and truth. Mr. Handel wrote it to celebrate the accession of His Majesty’s grandfather.”

“I envy you for having heard it in a true concert theater.” The young man
paused. “Why do you suspect it was inappropriate to perform at this time?”

Hugh studied his companion for a moment, then asked, “Have you read the Proclamation?”

“Yes, of course,” answered the stranger. “Why, only last week, our host — well, he, and Mr. Wythe, and Mr. Randolph, we often play for ourselves on Tuesday nights, and talk of things — his honor commented on the Proclamation, in answer to some bold questions of my own. I am not at liberty to divulge everything he said about it, but he spoke…darkly.”

“Has he had from London any intimation of new taxes to be laid on the colonies?”

The musician nodded and smiled. “Our host confided in me that some years ago, Mr. Pitt informed him that it may be necessary to create a special levy on the colonies, once the war was concluded, to meet some of the costs of winning it. Our host cordially advised Mr. Pitt that such a measure would be ill advised. The temper of Englishmen here — with which his honor is not only more familiar, but sympathetic to — would not long tolerate it, nor would their purses.”

Hugh grinned pointedly. “That, taken together with the lyrics of the
Anthem
, could only cause me to realize that the
Anthem
was inappropriate.”

“I see. Do you doubt the efficacy of the Proclamation?”

Hugh shook his head. “Not at all. What I doubt is its intent and purpose.”

The musician narrowed his eyes in thought. “You and I are not quite of the same mind, sir, but near enough that I have enjoyed our talk.”

Hugh nodded. “And I enjoyed your performance this evening. You must have had formal instruction.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the musician. “But, other than a brief introduction to the instrument by a tutor some years ago, I have had no formal training in the instrument. It was necessary to teach myself. I do not miss many notes, and am working to bring some spirit to my playing. It is not enough to merely play the notes of a composition. One must imbue them with some character.”

“That is a sensible philosophy of music with which I entirely agree.”

“I am fortunate that the Governor asks me to perform with him and his circle. It obliges me to aim for perfection.”

Hugh was certain that his companion was not much older or younger than he, yet the other’s manner toward him was that of deference to wisdom and experience. He was not sure he was comfortable in that role,
but he was amused. They spoke again of music, pacing back and forth together in the Palace yard in the cold air that neither of them seemed to notice. At one point in their conversation, Hugh remarked, “I believe that a man ought to adopt some work of music as his private overture to the opera of his life.”

The musician laughed and replied, “
That
is a unique and true observation, sir! But you must own that not so many men lead lives that would merit symphonic interpretation. I myself do not expect my own life to earn, on those terms, better than the tune of a country-dance. You see, I am planning a career in law, and my librettos would be limited to what I say in country courts and the General Court here, for my clients. And, if I enter politics, and run for burgess, I would not expect my overture in that respect to be more than a lullaby. However, that is the only contingency I would attach to your notion, sir, which is an intriguing one, worthy of a treatise.”

Hugh scoffed lightly. As he said it, he felt foolish, but he wanted to say it. “Do not dismiss your future life so lightly, sir. You may accomplish great things. You seem to be a well-read man. You should recall how many great men in the past had humble origins and, at your age, nurtured humble, unexceptional estimates of themselves. I am thinking of men such as Mr. Locke, and many of the composers we have heard this night.”

The musician said nothing for a while. Then he asked, “Have
you
chosen an overture for yourself, sir?”

“Not yet,” said Hugh. “I have heard much great music, but none that has moved me to assign that purpose to it.”

They were passing the rear entrance to the Palace ballroom that led to the gardens. A black servant came out then, came down the steps, and whispered something in the musician’s ear. The musician nodded once, and the servant went back inside. “My apologies, sir,” he said to Hugh, “but Mr. Wythe is asking me to join him and some other gentlemen to accompany the Governor in an impromptu performance requested by Mrs. Blair. Will you excuse me?”

Hugh chuckled. “Of course. But you have the advantage of me.”

The young man looked shocked, and he blushed. “Oh! A thousand pardons, sir!” He held out a hand. “Mr. Thomas Jefferson, of Albemarle.”

Hugh smiled and reciprocated the gesture. They shook hands. “It was my pleasure, sir. When I visit Williamsburg again — perhaps when the Assembly sits in the fall, and the theater here has a program of plays — we can continue our conversation.”

“Yes. I would like that.” With a brief bow and a last friendly smile, the young man turned and rushed up the steps and back into the Palace.

Hugh shortly followed him. Inside, Reece Vishonn took him aside and, in a low voice, said, “Sir, I did not know that you had so much influence with the Governor.”