Authors: Edward Cline
T
he five major rivers flowing into Chesapeake Bay formed peninsulas that together
roughly resembled, on a map, the fingers of a greedy hand reaching into the
Bay for the Eastern Shore. Of these rivers — the James, the York, the Rappahannock,
the Potomac, and the Patuxent — the least troublesome to navigators was the
York. Its mouth lay between Mobjack Bay off of Gloucester and the Marshes to
the south off of York County. Its source, some twenty-five miles northwest,
was the near confluence of the smaller, serpentine, and almost parallel Pamunkey
and Mattaponi Rivers, whose peculiarities screened much of the silt that would
otherwise have been deposited in the York. Thus the York was able to scour its
own bed. Its shoals and sand bars were known and static, while its slowly shifting
tidal flats rarely caught watermen, pilots and sea captains by surprise. Sea-draft
vessels were almost as common on the river as waterfowl and planters’ tobacco
barges. Its channels ranged between thirty to eighty feet deep, often plunging
to those depths only a few yards from either bank.
On the north side of the “thumb” of the greedy hand, midway up the York River,
sat the town of Caxton, a few dozen houses and structures atop a rolling bluff
that was enclosed by plantations and farms. Caxton had grown rapidly after the
county’s founders’ petition was granted in 1711 by the House of Burgesses and
the Governor’s Council to “secede” from the parent county. By 1750 the town’s
population and commerce began to rival Yorktown’s some ten miles down the river.
Caxton’s fortunes were in the ascendant.
Before it was known as Caxton, it was called Caxton’s Forge, a stop in the
wilderness on the way across the river or to Williamsburg. In the late seventeenth
century John Caxton and his wife operated a barge ferry at the riverbank on
what was now Morland property, and at the top of a gentle slope a smithy that
could repair travelers’ carriage wheels and harnesses and replace horseshoes.
Mrs. Caxton also served refreshments, drawn largely from an apple and pear tree
orchard her husband’s father had planted years before Bacon’s Rebellion in 1676.
The Caxtons’ one-room dwelling and smithy were in ruins now, overgrown with
weeds, bamboo, scrub pine, and poplars. The Caxtons had sold their small patent
of land to Captain John Massie’s father shortly after Queen Anne County came
into existence, citing the noisy influx of people as a reason to move on, and
left with their few belongings for the interior of the colony. They were never
heard from again. The neglected orchard was reclaimed by Jack Frake, whose small
press supplied Caxton’s three taverns with much of their cider.
“Which establishment do you think is patronized exclusively by the gentry here,
Mr. Talbot?” asked Hugh Kenrick.
The pair had found a room at Mrs. Rittles’s boarding house, had unpacked their
bags, and after an exchange of money and talk with the intrigued Mrs. Rittles,
decided to explore the town. Louise Rittles ran neither a tavern nor an ordinary,
but a rooming house for “excursioning” travelers for ready money or tobacco
notes. For an extra two pence she served a breakfast and supper. Her husband
Lucas owned a store that carried sundry necessities and novelties — most of
them imported — and also a farm that supplied Mrs. Rittles’s famous table with
most of its fare. Mrs. Rittles had deemed Mr. Talbot a gracious gentleman, but
the younger gentleman was someone extraordinary, she was certain of it. She
could not pry from them their business in Caxton, though they said they would
be here for two or three days. When she invited them to supper, they regretted
that they had a previous engagement. And when they had left for their walk,
she rushed across the street and spoke excitedly with her husband, whom she
found in the back of the store supervising a servant in candle pouring. “They’re
a plumb pair, let me tell you, Lucas!” she said. “From Philadelphia, no less!
I’ve a good mind to nose through their kit while they’re out! Won’t do no harm!”
“Don’t you think of it!” said Mr. Rittles. “If they notice anything amiss they’ll
think we’re sharpers. No, you keep your nose out of their things. We’ll learn
soon enough why they’re here.”
Hugh Kenrick and Otis Talbot stood in the middle of Queen Anne Street. The Gramatan
Inn, a large, rambling, two-story place of whitepainted wood, stood near the
courthouse, across from the church. Its signboard read “Gramatan’s Inn.” Nearer
to them was the King’s Arms tavern; its signboard displayed a newly painted
coat of arms. Closer to the waterfront, at the top of the road leading from
it, was a tavern whose signboard bore a racing horse, stretched in midstride
in an unlikely and physically impossible gallop.
Mr. Talbot shrugged. “Gramatan’s Inn, no doubt,” he answered. “There is no picture
on the board over the porch. It’s a rare gentleman who can’t read.”
Hugh smiled, and they walked on in the direction of the waterfront. “The King’s
Arms there,” he gestured with his cane, “is very likely a patriotic place where
one can pick up all sorts of information about the county. The racing horse
there suggests a low kind of place, an overblown gin shop.”
“Patronized by laborers and ships’ crews,” added Talbot, “but no less creditable
a place for intelligence on all sorts of matters.”
“True,” Hugh said.
As they passed the place, a man came out and scrutinized the pair. He wore a
filthy apron, dirty hose, and a shirt stained with brown and green smears. “Can
I get you sirs something?” he asked. “Grenada rum? Barbados spirits? Madeira?
There’s a chill in the air and come evening your blood may want some stoking.”
“No, thank you, sir,” said Talbot with a nod. “What is the name of your establishment?
The Arabian Racer, perhaps?”
The man looked offended. “No, sir! Saracen’s Wind!” He smiled. “Though you was
damned close. No, sir,” he went on, nodding to the signboard. “That’s Saracen’s
Wind. Used to own him. Won me a few trophies and prizes some years back. Had
to enter him under Mr. Granby’s name, of course, as I aren’t a gentleman, and
split the spoils with him, too. Then Saracen goes and breaks a leg while he’s
out to pasture, and we had to put him down. Sad matter. Couldn’t even stud him,
could’ve made some extra money studding him, you know. Oh, well….” The man paused
and studied the pair again. “My name is Joshua Fern, and my establishment is
better known here as Fern’s Tavern.”
Talbot nodded again. “Otis Talbot, of Philadelphia,” he said. “And my companion,
Mr. Kenrick.”
“What brings you to Caxton, sirs?”
“Business,” Talbot said.
When he realized that neither of the strangers was going to state their business,
Mr. Fern said, “Hope you enjoy your stay, sirs, and find the time to give me
some custom. Mine’s an interesting kind of place. The county was born here,
you might say, right in my Jamaica Room, when my father, Samuel, owned it. All
the old gentry met here and plotted their petition. The Broughams, the Massies,
the Granbys, the Vishonns, the Otways, the Cullises. The town’s grown since
then, of course. Got us a regular church and a courthouse and even a jail back
of it. Some of the finest houses in Virginia is to be found right here.”
“We hope to view some of them on the morrow,” Hugh Kenrick said. “Thank you
for the invitation and your information.” He and Talbot continued their stroll
to the waterfront.
Water Street, as it was informally called, ran for almost a quarter of a mile.
On it was packed a collection of tobacco warehouses, warehouses for other crops
and exports, cheap, crude hostelries for laborers and seamen, barracks-like
structures for slaves and servants, the homes and shops of chandlers, shipwrights,
and merchantmen’s stores and equipment. The visitors made the acquaintance of
Richard Ivy, the county court-nominated and Governor-appointed tobacco inspector,
at his office, in back of which was his home. Mr. Ivy was the third inspector
to hold the post in Caxton since passage of the Tobacco Inspection Act in 1730
to ensure the quality of tobacco exported from the colony. He had the power
to pass judgment on any hogshead and to destroy its contents if he judged them
trash. Some yards from his office was a black patch of ground on which stirred
in the wind the ashen remains of many tons of burned leaf. Mr. Ivy shrewdly
guessed the purpose of his visitors’ questions.
“I’ve been condemning more and more of Mr. Swart’s ’heads,” he volunteered.
“Thinks he can blackleg me by packing trash beneath good leaf. Deposits ten
’heads here and I cut ’em down to six or even five, usually. He’s probably busy
right now with another scheme. Won’t do him no good. I’ll open every lid. It’s
a shame, what he’s done to Brougham Hall. Used to turn out top grade. We’ll
all be glad to be rid of him.”
His visitors neither confirmed nor denied any interest in Brougham Hall. Hugh
Kenrick asked, pointing to three small, round-bottomed vessels farther down
the riverbank, “Whose are those, sir?” Two lay on their sides, the third was
encased in scaffolding. Men were busy on all three of them.
“The one in stocks is Mr. Vishonn’s, for his river trade,” said Mr. Ivy. “The
other two belong to Mr. Cullis and Mr. Granby. They’re having their hulls scraped
of worms and barnacles and such. Mr. Vishonn is replacing his hull. Those three
gentlemen carry a lot of wheat and grain to Fredericksburg, and even to Maryland.”
The visitors thanked Mr. Ivy for the chat and took their leave. The buildings
on Water Street all sat on an elevated line of the riverbank, far away from
the water and tide lines. The river, Mr. Ivy informed them, could become as
wild and violent in a storm as the surf on an ocean beach.
Queen Anne Street ran for half a mile from just above the riverfront, through
the town, to a wide wooden bridge that crossed Hove Creek. Paralleling it were
two shorter streets on either side of it, Prince George and Caroline. The first
was named after George the First’s son — who was now king — and the second after
George the Second’s late wife. Caroline Street was originally called Sophia,
after George the First’s wife, but a secretary to the Lieutenant-Governor pointed
out to the mayor and the parish vestrymen that George the First had divorced
her for having committed adultery and locked her in a castle in Hanover for
thirty-two years.
Scattered along these three oak- and poplar-lined avenues and their nameless
cross-streets were the homes of the town’s permanent residents, the “town” houses
of the major planters, and various tradesmen’s establishments, each with its
own garden or tobacco patch. An apothecary and a grocer’s shop shared the same
wooden house, across Queen Anne from a cobbler’s, a leathersmith’s, and a dressmaker’s.
The sun was beginning to set when the visitors stopped beneath the signboard
of the Caxton
Courier
, which depicted several tomes between the jaws
of a press.
Hugh smiled up at the sign, and peered through the shop’s window. Inside he
saw an apprentice arranging quarto pages on a length of twine that was suspended
over him from wall to wall. A short, stocky older man and another apprentice
were busy printing pages on a two-pull press. On another side of the shop were
shelves laden with books, stationery, writing articles, blank ledgers, and copies
of the
Courier
. Hugh nodded to the press that was producing the quarto
pages. “See that, Mr. Talbot?” he said. “I cleared that very press in London
in Mr. Worley’s office, some years ago.”
“Do you wish to go in and introduce yourself, sir?” asked the merchant.
“No. The older fellow is probably the publisher, and he would ask us questions.”
The pair began walking back to Mrs. Rittles’s house. Mr. Talbot waved at the
town in general. “If the property suits you, Mr. Kenrick,” he said, “are you
certain you could endure living here? I myself would regard a stay here of only
a month as a kind of criminal sentence, and would need to fight with myself
not to succumb to the malaise of boredom.”
“If the property suits me, Mr. Talbot, I would not have time to grow bored.”
Hugh Kenrick paused. “I would be making something my own.”
“Who
is
Jack Frake?” asked Talbot.
“Perhaps a kindred spirit,” answered his companion, “if he is still anything
like the man Captain Ramshaw once described to me. It was a pleasant surprise
to hear Mr. Stannard pronounce his name.”
“Judging by Mr. Stannard’s manner, he is not much more liked here than is Mr.
Swart.”
Hugh Kenrick did not reply.
“There is the matter of the slaves,” said Talbot. “I know very well your views
on the institution. How would you propose to handle that — if the property suits
you?”
“It would be a challenge, and I would resolve it.”
They walked together in silence again, nodding in greeting to the occasional
passerby. Otis Talbot had grown fond of his charge over the last two years,
and with the fondness had naturally come sensitivity to the young man’s moods.
He decided that the best course was to change the subject. He said, “Had you
not once a tutor by the name of Rittles, Mr. Kenrick? I seem to recall a story
you told me about him.”
Hugh Kenrick smiled. “That is true, sir. I had forgotten him. I shall ask our
hostess — discreetly, of course.”
He asked Mrs. Rittles that evening if she had relations in England. She had
not, nor had her husband, or, at least, none that she knew of or had been told
about. Mrs. Rittles appeared to be nervous during the cordial chat with her
guests. She had disobeyed her husband and poked through their belongings. She
discovered nothing telling in them, except that the articles were of the very
best quality.
* * *
Later that evening, Hugh Kenrick asked, “Why was this property not auctioned,
as is the usual practice in these circumstances?”
Arthur Stannard gestured to Ian McRae, who answered, “Because Mr. Stannard and
I knew we would not raise enough in an auction to cover Mr. Swart’s debts and
also recover our own costs of handling the matter. Mr. Stannard more so than
myself.”
Mr. Stannard added, “And, we would have likely been obliged to extend credit
again to the purchasers of the meanest parts of the property.” He paused. “We
are both under strict instructions from our respective firms in London and Glasgow
to clear our books of the Brougham Hall accounts. They are quite as tired of
Mr. Swart as we are.”
“Instructions?” scoffed Mr. McRae. “Nay — say, iron orders!”
Five men sat at a round table in the Cumberland Room of the Gramatan Inn. Supper
was finished, and Mr. Stannard ordered a fresh round of port over which to discuss
business. He, Mr. McRae, and Mr. Talbot lit pipes and rekindled them occasionally
from pouches of tobacco. The room was spacious, large enough to accommodate
twenty patrons, and insulated from the noise in the rest of the inn by plastered
walls and walnut wainscoting. Two candelabra on the table and a dozen triple-mirrored
sconces on the walls brightened the room with near-daylight.
Adorning one of the walls was a crude reproduction of a painting depicting Cumberland’s
rout of the Jacobite Scots at Cullenden Moor, the Duke astride a rearing, fierce-looking
stallion, brandishing a sword, his background a confused rendering of the battle.
Hugh was amused by the painting, for the Duke he remembered did not look anything
like the person in the picture. He remarked privately to Mr. Talbot, “Cullenden,
say wags in London, compensated for Fontenoy.”
The fifth gentleman at the table was Mr. Thomas Reisdale, an older man who sat
on the county court, maintained a private law practice in Caxton, and was the
only justice in Queen Anne County versed in law. Born in Fredericksburg, he
was sent to London for his education by his planter father, attended Cambridge
University, and studied at the Inns of Court, where he obtained a law degree
before returning to Virginia. He owned ten thousand acres of land in the Piedmont
and a profitable plantation in Queen Anne. Having been edged out of inheriting
his father’s vaster holdings by an elder brother, he settled in Queen Anne and
assembled his own little empire. He corresponded frequently with Richard Bland,
burgess for Prince George County and a recognized authority on English and Continental
law. Mr. Reisdale was the attorney representing Stannard and McRae, and the
one who had persuaded his fellow justices to declare Amos Swart bankrupt. He
did not say much during the meal, or after it.
Hugh Kenrick was also amused by the British and Scottish agents’ behavior. They
had both greeted him effusively, but there was an element of hesitation in the
courtesies they paid him, as though they were not certain they were being courteous
enough. He suspected that they had discovered his true identity, but he did
not care enough about the matter to inquire how.
Arthur Stannard had been visited hours before the supper by Reverend Acland,
who informed him in hushed whispers that, to judge by what he could glean from
his correspondents’ letters, Hugh Kenrick was indeed the son of a baron and
the nephew of an earl. “It seems he once snubbed the Duke of Cumberland, and
got into some trouble in London, and even spent time in the Tower for his association
with some Leveller rascals!” the minister said, who was beside himself with
excitement and disapproval. “Why, it is suspected even that he slew a marquis
in a nocturnal duel!”
“Well! What do you think of that!” exclaimed Mr. Stannard. “It’s no wonder to
me at all that he was sent away!”
“I shall write my friends in Devon and London and ask for more particular information,”
confided the minister.
“But I beg you not to speak to anyone else of this,” said Mr. Stannard. “Not
until my business is concluded one way or another.”
Mr. Stannard in turn informed Mr. McRae, but cautioned, “He seems to prefer
the address of a commoner, and so I strongly advise that we humor him in that
respect, and not let on that we
know
.”
“Iron orders, indeed,” remarked Mr. Talbot. He smiled. “I am fully sympathetic
to your dilemma, sirs. Mr. Spicer and I are no strangers to the need to dun
a spendthrift and recalcitrant patron. We have resorted to the courts a number
of times to recover our due.”
Hugh Kenrick leaned forward and said, “We would have expected the sterling value
of such a considerable property to be much higher, sirs, than the eleven hundred
quoted by you, which must reflect a drastically reduced appraisal of Brougham
Hall.” He paused. “The property must be in a very sorry state.”
“That is true, sir,” acknowledged Stannard. “Although it is not the largest
plantation in these parts, under Mr. Swart’s management it has lost more than
twice the value of a property three times its size. The late Covington Brougham
was a crop master, and the envy and mentor of even the bashaws here.”
Mr. Talbot asked, “Have you the particulars of the property, sirs?”
Mr. Stannard opened a portfolio and took out a sheet of paper, from which he
read: “The property known as Brougham Hall consists of one thousand and six
acres, of which fewer than half have been cleared for cultivation. Of the cultivated
acres, between one hundred and one hundred and fifty are devoted to tobacco,
although,” added the agent parenthetically, “that number has steadily risen
over the years as the quality of Mr. Swart’s leaf has declined and attempts
were made by him to make up with bulk. The balance of the acreage is set aside
for wheat, corn, and other staples. There are some orchards on the property
— peach, apple, pippin, and others — but Mr. Swart has neglected these and allowed
them to be overcome by scrub pine, elms, and hackberries.”
Mr. Stannard paused to sip his port, then continued. “I might add that one of
the most egregious expenses incurred by Mr. Swart was that associated with his
experiment with growing orange trees, a few hundred saplings of which he purchased
from a ship’s captain who had to delay his departure from Caxton to have his
hull treated for worm. Mr. Swart, unmindful that our climate does not favor
the cultivation of that admirable fruit, planted the trees in a field he had
only recently decided to let lie fallow. What folly! When they succumbed to
an early frost and their leaves rotted, Mr. Swart accosted the captain and was
prevented from doing him bodily harm only by the strenuous intervention of others.
The whole incident merely contributed to the contempt in which he was already
held.”
The agent cleared his throat and read from his paper. “The buildings? The main
house has a vista of the York over a landscaped lawn that has seen only desultory
care. From bank to house, the lawn is some two hundred feet. The brick house
itself is seventy by forty feet, of two stories, the first twelve feet in height,
the second, nine. Inside and out, the architecture is of simple, formal lines
— what I would call ‘modest Grecian,’ if I may take the liberty. In it are five
fireplaces, four in the corners, and one in the center. There are several cellars
for the various beverages, cheeses, meats, and cook’s necessities, plus a vault
for claret, wine and such. On the first floor are the supper room, a parlor,
a ballroom, a library or study, and a breakfast room with a view of the river,
in addition to a game room with a billiard table fashioned of Cornish slate.
The second floor, reached by a fine oak staircase, consists of three bedchambers,
two children’s chambers, and a parlor or busy room for the ladies of the house.
Of course, there are numerous closets on both floors, and on the first an unobtrusive
accommodation for the house’s major domo and cook.” Mr. Stannard chuckled and
looked up from his paper. “Gentlemen, the place is nearly half as grand as the
Governor’s residence in Williamsburg. Have you ever visited our capital?”
“No,” answered Mr. Talbot.
Before Stannard could continue, the Scottish factor held up his pipe. “May I
interrupt for a moment, sir?”
The British agent nodded and took the opportunity to finish his glass of port.
McRae said, “Mr. Stannard’s son, Joseph, was informed by Mr. Beecroft, the business
agent at Brougham Hall, that Mr. Swart left two days ago to see to one of his
Henrico properties, and is not expected to return for a week or so. This fact
needn’t concern us, if there is a happy ending to these matters. By the terms
of the court order, Mr. Swart’s signature is not required to either endorse
or conclude the sale of the whole property or any part of it. He is, for all
practical matters, a tenant at Brougham Hall.”
“This is true,” volunteered Mr. Reisdale.
Stannard said, “Forgive me for not informing you gentlemen of that important
fact, and of Mr. Swart’s absence.”
Talbot chuckled. “I suppose, then, we shall be denied the chance to meet this
gentleman when we visit the property tomorrow.”
McRae smiled. “You will be spared the pleasure of meeting an apish, unkempt
man, who is usually reeking of rum.”
“Should he not, as master of the place, at this time be supervising the stemming
and prizing of his leaf?” asked Hugh Kenrick.
“He should,” said Stannard, waving his document. “But, there you are. It is
so characteristic of the man.” He squinted his eyes and continued to read. “The
outbuildings consist of a laundry, a kitchen — close by a door to one of the
cellars, I should add, which also happen to be connected themselves by doors
— a baking house, a dairy, a storehouse for provisions, a stable, and a coach
house — which contains a riding chair and a landau, neither of which I have
seen in use in years — all very prettily situated around the main house in a
courtyard laid with brick fashioned in a kiln elsewhere on the property, but
which Mr. Swart has allowed to fall into disrepair. There is a smaller house,
of two stories, twenty-five by twenty-five, the quarters of the business agent,
the overseer, and the clerk, just beyond the courtyard….There are two tobacco
barns, each thirty-two feet by twenty….” The agent droned on about the livestock,
the cooper’s and carpenter’s sheds, the smithy, and other facilities, finally
touching on the servants, the slaves, and their quarters.
When his colleague was finished, Mr. McRae cleared some space on the table and
unrolled a surveyor’s map of Brougham Hall and neighboring freeholds. The next
half hour was spent discussing the property and its natural assets.
At one point, Hugh Kenrick looked up from the map and asked, “Have there been
any conflicts or differences between Mr. Frake and Mr. Swart?”
“None that we know of, sir,” said Stannard with a shrug. “Mr. Frake seems to
have less esteem for Mr. Swart than what decent Christian tolerance would allow,
while Mr. Swart appears to have made an effort to avoid Mr. Frake’s company
and temper.”
McRae chuckled. “One would never see those two standing on the same side of
a room,” he remarked.
Later, as the Scottish agent rolled up his map, Stannard called for some bottles
of French brandy to be sent in. When each man’s glass was filled, he said, “Now,
good sirs, on to an important matter. Naturally, we are curious about the arrangement
between you, Mr. Talbot, and you, Mr. Kenrick, should a purchase be decided
on. Your
bonafides
are undoubtedly impeccable and beyond reproach, but
still, Mr. McRae and I are anxious to grasp your situations.”
Otis Talbot, who repacked his pipe during this address, paused to light it with
a match lit from the candelabrum near him. He spoke. “Should a purchase be decided
on, sirs, the deed to the property would be registered in my own name as a private
person. However, I would be the owner in name only, having no power over the
property itself. Mr. Kenrick here would in fact occupy and manage the property,
and be answerable to the man in whose place I would sign any document concerning
Brougham Hall. When Mr. Kenrick has reached his majority, title to the property
would instantly revert to him, and neither I nor the third party could claim
any part of it.”
Mr. Reisdale leaned forward and asked, “Are you his guardian, Mr. Talbot?”
Talbot shook his head. “No, sir. For two years now, Mr. Kenrick has been acting,
in effect, as an apprentice in my and Mr. Spicer’s business, in accordance with
the wishes of his father.” He paused. “It is Mr. Kenrick’s father’s funds that
would make any purchase possible.”
Stannard turned and addressed Hugh Kenrick with the hesitant, circumspect delicacy
of a man asking a marriageable young woman about the state of her chastity.
“Well, sir…who
is
your father?”
Hugh Kenrick said, without any stress in his words, “Garnet Kenrick, Baron of
Danvers, and brother of the Earl of same. In addition to managing the family’s
property in Dorset, my father has conducted a lucrative commerce with the colonies
and the Continent through Worley and Sons, with whom I have also served in an
apprenticeship. Much of the family’s commerce is carried on that firm’s merchantmen,
the
Busy
and the
Nimble
, in addition to the family’s own schooner,
the
Ariadne
, devoted almost exclusively to trade between these colonies
and Britain. My father is also an unnamed principal in the banking firm of Formby,
Pursehouse and Swire, in London.”
Stannard and McRae were more pleased than they could permit themselves to say.
Had they been alone at that moment, they would have risen from their seats,
called for a fiddler, and linked arms to perform a lively jig. Instead, both
men merely blushed. Mr. Reisdale stared at Hugh Kenrick in open-mouthed disbelief.
Stannard said, “Yes…well…I believe the
Busy
and the
Ariadne
have
both called on Caxton in the past….”
McRae said to his colleague, “The
Ariadne
has carried quite a lot of
tobacco to Glasgow and Liverpool…and other goods as well….” To stop himself
from whooping with joy, he took a sip of his brandy and added, “Why, a goodly
portion of my store’s stock was brought in on the