“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.”
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.