Eliot Pattison - Blood of the Oak

“Your name is on it,” Ramsey snapped. “It is your handwriting.”

“No.”

“I assure you I can find witnesses to attest to it!” Ramsey scolded.

“No.”

Ramsey simmered. “I tell you, sir, I have your name on a treasonous document.”

“No,” Adams insisted again, “but perhaps Mrs. Franklin can demonstrate the truth for the court.”

Ramsey scornfully watched as Deborah Franklin, smiling earnestly at him, handed the transcription of the letter she had made to Conawago, who laid it in front of Ramsey.

An impatient rumbling rose from Ramsey’s throat. “You don’t seem to grasp the jeopardy in which you . . .” The lord’s words died away as he studied the transcription. “I am quite sure I don’t understand,” he sputtered.

“The two versions are identical, are they not?” the magistrate asked. “Identical in every respect.” He turned to Conawago. “Perhaps you can enlighten our guest?”

“Identical down to the curves on the F s and flourishes on the G s,” Conawago elaborated. “Because your bounty men did not understand that Deborah Franklin acts as a surrogate for her husband while he is in London. You intercepted letters that you assumed were written by Benjamin, because they were signed Franklin, when in fact they were written by Mrs. Franklin. So your forgeries of letters from Benjamin are all made in her hand. The wrong hand. Your agent Francis Johnson did not know this when he delivered a letter purportedly from Benjamin to Johnson Hall. But his father, who has the pleasure of frequently corresponding with Deborah, immediately recognized her hand and saw that treachery was afoot.”

“I have a commission from the governor of Virginia!” Ramsey snarled.

Allen nodded to Ramsey’s outriders. “You have a vast imagination, sir, especially when it comes to your own abilities and authority,” the governor declared. “It is you, sir, who presume too much. The traveling companions you hired in Philadelphia have had time to change to their official attire.” The two men rose and removed their cloaks, revealing blue waistcoats trimmed with grey. “These stalwart lads you hired with the coach when you disembarked in Philadelphia are dragoons of the governor’s guard, as is your carriage driver. Did I mention the owner of the livery is my brother-in-law? And perhaps you are acquainted with my two special bailiffs, appointed by my hand yesterday. It seemed the least we could do.” As he spoke the door opened and Tanaqua and Ononyot, both wearing new waistcoats over buckskin leggings, moved inside so quickly that the two seated pharaohs from Galilee, stunned by their appearance, had no time to resist. The Mohawks pinned them to the wall with their war axes and relieved them of their pistols. A small strangled noise came from Ramsey’s throat. He shrank back in his chair. He was, Duncan well knew, terrified of all Indians. Ramsey turned to Gabriel as if expecting him to come to his assistance, but the superintendent of Galilee sat frozen, the color draining from his face.

Murdo Ross came forward, leading the limping artist Jeremiah Bowen. Duncan had urged the Scot to stay away from the Pennsylvania officials because of the standoff in the Conococheague Valley, but two days before word had arrived of a truce in the valley. All prisoners had been released, and the governor had assured them the unfortunate episode in the valley was forgotten, and that all shipments to the western territory would henceforth be inspected by his personal representatives. Kuwali appeared behind Ross, helping Mr. Prindle the printer into a chair. Dickinson lifted a Bible, swore Prindle and Bowen to the truth, then began his new questioning. Ramsey said nothing, only crossed his arms and glared at Dickinson as the magistrate skillfully pieced together the story, carefully reviewed with Duncan, Woolford, and the witnesses the preceding day. The full story of the forged stamps, forged commissions, and forged letters took hours to recount, with Rush recording every word.

“I have a commission from the governor of Virginia!” Ramsey finally protested, his voice thick with loathing. “I am a commander of the naval militia!”

Dickinson gave a lightless smile and waved another paper at Ramsey, then nodded to one of the dragoons. “Can you ask the colonel to join us?”

The tall, well-dressed man who strode through the door had the honest air of a farmer but his eyes were deep and his voice one of firm authority as he was sworn in. “Washington, sir,” he declared to Dickinson in a polite tone. “Colonel of the Virginia militia.”

“And commander of that militia?”

“That is my particular honor.”

Dickinson handed him the paper and asked him to describe it.

“From the governor in Williamsburg, sir,” Washington explained. “Signed in my presence and in my possession until I delivered it to you.” He turned to Ramsey. “Your commission is terminated. The Virginia militia no longer requires a naval unit.”

Ramsey’s lips curled in a silent snarl.

“We apologize for troubling you in the harvesting season, Colonel,” Dickinson offered to Washington. “You have a plantation on the Potomac I believe.”

George Washington straightened. “When the integrity of the Virginia military is in question, sir, nothing is too much trouble.”

“Your lenders in London will hear of this!” Ramsey screeched.

“Our Philadelphia friends have arranged for a colonial bank to pay off the debt the governor owes you, sir,” Washington replied with a thin smile, “and perhaps Virginia planters need to learn to do without the lenders of London.”

Dickinson excused the witness and Washington strode outside, where he could be seen lighting up a pipe with Woolford and Major Webb, who now waited with the Pennyslvania dragoons, a dozen of whom had arrived with the governor the prior evening.

The magistrate lifted one more paper. “From a judge in Maryland. A warrant for the arrest of Lord Peter Ramsey on charges of kidnapping and mayhem in Chestertown.”

Ramsey’s face turned crimson. The lace of his collar moved up and down. “Damn your impertinence! You have no proof I was involved!”

“Imagine the trials. British marines desperately trying to avoid court-martial and hanging by explaining they were taking orders from you to commit murder and false enslavement. Not to mention the use of a naval ship to sink private British vessels. Prominent citizens in Philadelphia, Boston, New York, and Williamsburg attesting to your attempt to deprive them of their liberty. Then there are the families of the men who died as a result of your scheme. Those are just the offenses of the Krakens. Imagine what the king would say if he heard of your attempt to defraud him of tax revenues.” Dickinson extended the warrant toward the shadows and Duncan appeared to take the papers to Ramsey. “Do we also need to issue a warrant for embezzling the king’s revenues?”

The pompous lord, who looked as if he might start throwing things at the governor, grabbed the papers, then glanced at Duncan and froze. His rage boiled over as Duncan coolly returned his stare. “McCallum!” Ramsey spat. “You can’t be here. You are on a ship to . . .” he seemed unable to speak for a moment. “You mongrel! You did this! How dare you!” He pounded the table. “I will not have it! McCallum is my property! A runaway!”

“We understand his bond is to Miss Sarah Ramsey,” Dickinson replied.

“She is incapacitated!” Ramsey furiously inserted. “Halfway across the Atlantic. She cannot . . .”

Sarah emerged from the shadows and stepped to Duncan’s side. The cast of characters in their drama, which Woolford had insisted was as good as any of Shakespeare, was complete. “Actually, father, I am quite well, thank you,” she declared in a chill tone. “And as you well know I am a landed free woman in the colony of New York. Mr. McCallum is bound to me alone.”