“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.”
“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 Fs and flourishes on the Gs,” 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.