Eliot Pattison - Blood of the Oak

Ramsey was beginning to look like a cornered beast. He spoke very slowly, vitriol dripping from every word. “I am a member of the House of the Lords!” Spittle flew from his lips. “I am cousin to the king!”

Deborah Franklin pushed back her chair and rose at last. With a ceremonial bearing she asked Kuwali and Analie to help her with a piece of folded cloth, and the two adolescents unfurled a flag, revealing the segmented serpent and its caption Join or Die , which they draped over the mantle, anchored by candlesticks. “I sewed the first of these with Benjamin all those years ago,” she explained to Ramsey in a level voice. “It became one of his favorite treasures, so valued he took it to London with him. I was so honored to hear that dear Jessica Ross had sewn another that I had to make my own to fly on High Street.”

She opened a worn leather satchel and produced a piece of newsprint, which Kuwali carried to Ramsey. “I helped compose this in my husband’s print shop,” she announced, “though Mr. Moon was of great assistance. It felt good to get ink on my hands again.”

It was a prototype, a mocked-up page of Franklin’s Pennsylvania Gazette . Half the page was taken up by a drawing of a giant eight-legged beast wrapping its tentacles around a map of the thirteen colonies. Beneath it was the caption Kraken Feeds on America While the King Sleeps.

“We typically send a hundred copies of each issue to London,” Deborah Franklin explained, “though I daresay this edition would merit five or six hundred.” She took off her spectacles and cleaned them on a linen napkin. “The article, of course, would include the names of members of your secret club, those we know so far. It will make our little paper famous all over Europe. Perhaps I will send duplicate plates to my husband in London so he can keep up with the demand there. A virtual goldmine for the news journals. The people do so love to read of how the high and mighty fall. With all the resignations from Parliament it will cause, I daresay, it will shift the balance of power in government. And they will all know you caused it.”

Ramsey shrank before their eyes. Indictments from colonial officials meant little to the aristocrat. But the article Franklin threatened would destroy all that Ramsey held dear-his access to the king, his privileges in court, his private club memberships, the status that allowed him to strut and make people cower throughout London society. There would be no more balls, no more regal audiences, no more kowtowing at his presence.

Ramsey offered no protest when Conawago lifted away the stack of forged papers in front of him.

“We are prepared to refrain from such harsh actions,” Dickinson announced. “We are willing to hold the writs in a private file and not prosecute them. Mrs. Franklin has reluctantly agreed to suspend publication of this most remarkable story. Provided-”

Ramsey leaned forward, reviving.

“Provided you leave Virginia and the northern colonies. You have plantations in the Carolinas and the Caribbean you can retreat to, not to mention your estates in England. You will discreetly give us the names of all members of the Kraken Club and we will make no official notice of them. You will give employment to Francis Johnson in England, far from the Iroquois and his father. You will abandon all efforts to block the committees of correspondence and the conduct of a colonial congress. And you will report that your informants confirm that such congress will not be held until next spring.”

Ramsey’s eyes were like daggers, stabbing at Duncan. He slowly turned to Dickinson then lowered his head and stiffly nodded.

Duncan leaned over Dickinson and whispered. “Ah, yes,” Dickinson said with a slight blush. “You will abandon all efforts to marry off your daughter.” The magistrate glanced out the window. Sarah had gone outside and was now laughing with Colonel Washington. “I have met Miss Ramsey and assure you she is quite capable of managing her own life. And you will sign a deed.”

“Deed?” Ramsey growled.

Conawago placed another paper in front of the lord. “Sign this and the governor and magistrate will witness,” Dickinson explained. “There was some confusion over ownership of a plantation on the Rappahannock. This deed transfers all ownership rights in Galilee to Mrs. Dawson, the widow and heir of the former owner.”

“Colonel Washington,” Dickinson added, “and Major Webb have graciously agreed to deliver the deed to Mrs. Dawson personally.”

“Impossible!” Gabriel hissed, rising so fast he spilled papers across the table. “That is my plantation! No sotted Quaker prig is going to-” his words died away as Ononyot clamped a hand around his arm. Gabriel tried to twist out of his grip, to no avail. “Get off me you filthy heathen! If I had you back at-” Tanaqua appeared on his other side.

Dickinson raised a hand. “One final thing. Mr. Moon has reminded us that there is an old treaty with the tribes. Never abrogated after all these years. It promised comity, meaning each side would respect the enforcement of the laws of the other. There was an example, right in the text, that a murderer of a tribal member would answer for his crime under tribal law, and it is the policy of Pennsylvania that if any such fugitive from Iroquois justice sought refuge within our borders, we would turn him over. The murder of an aged Susquehannock would be a matter of tribal law, of course.”

One by one Hyanka and the other Iroquois rangers who had been in Galilee filed into the chamber. Gabriel stood stricken, wide-eyed, and unable to speak, then suddenly reached into his waistcoat and extracted a small pepperbox pistol that he swung toward the Iroquois. Tanaqua pushed the barrel upward as it discharged, loosening its load into the ceiling.

No one spoke. Tanaqua pried the pistol out of his hand. As he set it on the table Gabriel gave a terrified squeal. Ononyot had slipped a prisoner’s strap over his neck.

It was late afternoon when they finally left the tavern, having seen Ramsey off with his escort of Philadelphia dragoons. Governor Allen had to leave soon himself, but Adams, Mrs. Franklin, Washington, and Dickinson insisted on hosting a banquet that night for Duncan and his companions.

“In faith, McCallum,” the governor exclaimed, “we are truly and deeply indebted to you. If there is ever anything I could do for you-”

Duncan smiled. He had prayed for the invitation. “We would not have succeeded without the Iroquois,” he replied. “There is a merchant here named Hawley,” he added, then explained what he had in mind.

“My God, McCallum. You presume much, sir.”

Duncan silently returned his stare, until the governor looked away.

Half an hour later Duncan and the governor entered Hawley’s establishment, followed by Dickinson, Conawago, and Tanaqua.

“Mr. Hawley,” Conawago said to the man behind the counter. “Might I present his excellency Mr. Allen, the acting governor of the colony, and Magistrate Dickinson?”

The storemaster’s jaw dropped open. He hastily removed his apron and offered a bow. “Honored I’m sure.”

“I understand,” Allen began, “that you hold a commission as paymaster of bounties on-” he cast an uneasy glance at Conawago and Tanaqua. “On hair,” he concluded.

“Aye, sir. An active trade for our establishment, the most active commission in the colony by all accounts.”

“Might I see it?”

Hawley frowned then excused himself as he hurried into a back office. When he returned, the governor unrolled the parchment on the counter. “Have you ink and a pen?” he inquired. As he waited again he read the words and his face clouded. “Not the proudest act of a Christian government,” he whispered, as if to himself. When the ink arrived he lifted the pen and with a flourish wrote the word Terminated across the face of the commission and signed it. “You are done, Hawley. It’s all done.” He rolled up the commission and handed it to Tanaqua. “This colony is no longer in the hair business.”