Eliot Pattison - Blood of the Oak

The five men at one end of the long table by the row of front windows rose and politely greeted Lord Ramsey, then Gabriel, who was introduced as his secretary. As Ramsey sat at the end of the table nearest the door, the five introduced themselves and Gabriel opened a journal, produced a quill and ink pot, and made a show of recording their names, interrupting to ask spellings. Samuel Adams from Boston, Peter Hopkins from New York, Peyton Randolph of Williamsburg, John Dickinson of Philadelphia, and Mistress Deborah Franklin, speaking for her husband. Dickinson introduced Benjamin Rush as their own secretary. Ramsey’s guards from the coach, each armed with a shortsword and a pistol in a shoulder holster in the style of Scottish troops, sat with stern expressions on either side of the door. Duncan recognized both as pharaoh riders from Galilee.

A maid appeared with a tray of cider and mugs, assisted by a girl with blonde braids carrying a platter of iced sweet rolls. The braids, and her bright white apron, gave Analie the look of an innocent serving girl. She had insisted on playing a role in their little drama.

“We were surprised at the announcement you sent from Philadelphia,” the portly Samuel Adams lied, “but we are always honored to be joined by a member of the House of Lords.”

“Join you?” Ramsey retorted, with a pompous gesture that seemed to dismiss Adam’s words. “Only in the sense that we sit at the same table. Rather I ensnare you.” As he spoke the remaining men of his escort, the two outriders, still wearing their cloaks, entered the room and sat, backs to Woolford and Duncan, as if to corner the committeemen.

Adams ignored Ramsey’s opening. “We are here to discuss the particularities of a colonial congress,” the Boston committeman continued, “but those of us habituated to public discourse can be so long-winded. Why if Dr. Franklin were here he would take thirty minutes just to warm his tongue and continue through at least three pitchers of ale. We know his better half will be so much more succinct.” Mrs. Franklin, a solid-looking woman with deeply penetrating eyes, offered a congenial nod in reply. She had played the gracious hostess to Duncan and his friends the prior week in Philadelphia, taking particular delight in demonstrating the household’s electrical apparatus, and later insisting they all go to church to pray for Devon Gates when she had learned of his fate. “I am sure you would like to be spared the ordeal of our own discourse, Lord Ramsey,” Adams declared in an attentive tone. “Prithee, if you have business with us let us hear you out first, sir.”

An exaggerated sigh escaped Ramsey’s throat. “I once found signs of rats in my country house in Wiltshire,” the patrician began in a conversational tone. “My steward said it was to be expected, that they were doing no real harm. I told the fool that a rat feeling safe in the cellar will soon aspire to enter the kitchen, the dining room, and even the parlor itself. I ordered every barrel and rack moved out. We starved half a dozen terriers for a week then turned them loose. In the end we had nothing left but one very plump terrier.” He cast a frigid smile down the table at the colonials. “We have rats in the cellar of the empire and it is time to loose the dogs.”

With an air of ceremony Gabriel produced a thick bundle of papers from his leather portfolio and handed Ramsey the topmost sheet. “A secret letter from Mr. Hopkins of New York to Mr. Henry of Williamsburg.” The patrician held it toward the window and made a show of scanning it before reading a passage. “The pompous Hanoverian is no longer my king,” Ramsey recited. “He is a false idol which we must tear down.” Ramsey wagged a finger at Hopkins, who silently glared at him. The lord continued with a letter from Adams to Franklin. “The gout in George’s foot has spread to his brain,” Ramsey read. “He who once strutted now only limps and babbles.” He cast a censuring glance when a small laugh escaped Adams’s throat. “We have no obligation to serve the infirm and incapacitated,” Ramsey continued, then read from another, and another, all allegedly letters between known committeemen, all with similarly incendiary passages.

Ramsey glanced without acknowledgment at the two men who stepped from the kitchen and sat behind Rush and Franklin. “This is treason, gentlemen. Men have lost their heads in the Tower for less. In another century we would have had you drawn and quartered in the public square.” He accepted another bundle of papers from Gabriel.

“More letters, these boasting of tax stamps stolen from the king. One shipment in New Jersey, another in Massachusetts. Contemptible!” Ramsey spat, heat building in his voice. “It makes you little better than a gang of cutpurses, damned your eyes!” He fixed Dickinson with a baleful stare. “Your agent Franklin in London is the worst devil of all!” he barked, pulling out a letter and waving it at Dickinson with a victorious air. “To the Committee of Philadelphia,” Ramsey read, then paused as Dickinson held up a hand and pushed a quill and ink pot to Deborah Franklin, who began transcribing.

“To the Committee of Philadelphia,” she repeated.

“I have led the king’s men to believe that-”

“Prithee, sir,” Mrs. Franklin interrupted with a matronly air, “more slowly.”

With an impatient sigh Ramsey pressed on, “-to believe that the colonies will tolerate the dread tax to give us time to organize the congress. We will let the Parliament sleep until we awake it with a claw at its throat. What the king built in America shall be ours if we are but patient,” Ramsey recited, ending with a flourish. “He should hang for this!”

When none of the colonials reacted he hesitated, then lifted the next five papers and read the names on each, the names of each of the committeemen at the table. “These are warrants for your arrest on charges of treason. With these I could have you clamped in irons today and shipped to London for trial.”

Ramsey shot a peeved glance as another gentleman moved out of the shadows and settled in a chair along the wall. “But we are inclined to be merciful. We will hold the warrants and all of you, all the committeemen, will resign from whatever public offices you may hold and refrain from all public and political discourse. There will be no colonial congress.”

One of the most recent arrivals, a spare, austere man in simple Quaker dress, stood and took a seat alongside that of Dickinson at the end of the long table opposite Ramsey.

“My name is William Allen,” the newcomer solemnly announced as he placed a heavy brass seal on the table beside him. “I have the honor to serve on the Governor’s Council, and in the absence of the honorable Governor John Penn, now at his English estates, I have full power to act for him. Last night,” he said, producing a paper from his own leather portfolio, “I appointed Mr. Dickinson here as special magistrate. Of Pennsylvania. Surely even you, the most creative of accusers, would have to acknowledge that you are not in Virginia, but in Penn’s Woods.” The acting governor began arranging papers in front of him. “Where to begin?”

Adams cleared his throat.

“Very well.” Allen pounded the heavy seal on the table. “This court is in session and Mr. Dickinson is presiding, assisted by Mr. Socrates Moon as clerk of this special court,” he added, as Conawago, dressed in his European finery, rose from along the wall and sat just behind Dickinson.

Dickinson nodded to the acting governor and turned to the representative from Massachusetts. “Samuel Adams of Boston, did you write the letter Lord Ramsey ascribes to you?”

Mr. Adams suddenly lost his jovial air, shaking his head so hard it slightly dislodged his wig. “Never in life.”