quite a success.”
“He prints traitorous garbage!” the sergeant insisted, then he added quickly, “Lord Cameron, sir, that is.”
“What? Is the man not still a free Englishman with rights! Come on, man, what has this to do with anything? I’m telling you, Sergeant, yes, we’ve been having a tea party. Elizabeth and I were sipping a warm berry brew when you so rudely interrupted us. I wish privacy now. I have been harassed quite enough for the night, as have these good people, I am quite sure. Am I understood?”
“Oh, quite, milord, yes!” The sergeant snapped to a salute. “Yes, milord. Good night, milord.”
Milord. Milord Cameron. Frederick smiled. He had heard of the man. He had fought, leading a band of Virginians, in the French and Indian Wars. He sat on the Governor’s Council in Virginia. He was immensely wealthy, with estates in the colonies, the islands, and in England. But he had stood in the line of battle again and again, defying bullets, so they claimed. He could do more than shoot Indians, he could speak their language. He was powerful, yes, and by God, he was a member of an elite peerage, but he was an American, too, so it was sworn. Virginia was not Massachusetts, the seeds of discontent were not so fully sown there as here, but she was a great colony, creating great statesmen.
This man sat on the Governor’s Council instead of in the House of Burgesses. The Councilmen were appointed for life, a great honor. He should be loyal to the Crown. And still, Frederick realized, Lord Cameron had saved
his
life.
The door was shut and bolted. Elizabeth fell against the door, trembling. “I shall faint—”
“You mustn’t madam, I beg of you!” he said, and drew her up.
“You’ve saved us once again. Oh, milord, our lives are yours! Whatever you wish—”
“I wish a long, potent drink!” Eric laughed. “And a word with your husband.”
Elizabeth nodded and glanced worriedly toward Frederick. Then she hurried toward the kitchen, and Eric approached Frederick. He pulled up a chair and straddled it,and stared at the printer. “I want to know about it. I want to know about tonight.”
“But you must know—”
“I know nothing. I’m a Virginian. I’m here on business, and I stumbled upon you.”
Frederick inhaled and exhaled. The man was tough, and he wanted answers.
“We didn’t want it to happen—”
“Don’t tell me that. The trouble has been brewing here since the Boston ‘Massacre’ in 1770.”
Frederick exhaled. The Boston Massacre had actually been a street fight. About fifty citizens, infuriated by the soldiers within the city, had attacked a British sentinel. Captain Preston, the British officer in charge, had brought more soldiers, and they had fired into the crowd. Three people were killed, eight were wounded, and two of the wounded later died. A town meeting had been called, and the British had agreed to let the captain stand trial for murder. John Adams and Josiah Quincy had been his defense counselors, and he had been acquitted of murder—it couldn’t be proven that he had ordered his men to fire into the crowd. Two soldiers were found guilty of manslaughter, and they were branded on their hands and dismissed from the service. Speechmakers and politicians, eager to keep sentiment high against the British, had termed the event the Boston Massacre.
“We did not intend this!” Frederick insisted. “Milord,” he added quietly. Then he lifted his chin. “Ask around, among your friends, and you will discover the truth. The British offered the British East India Company a rebate for tea sold in America. The tea was to be consigned to certain individuals. There would have been a monopoly on the tea, and our local merchants would have been put out of business. It was a government move to enforce the tea tax, milord, can you understand? The Committee of Correspondence refused to permit these tea-laden ships to land, and we appealed to Governor Hutchinson to
“He prints traitorous garbage!” the sergeant insisted, then he added quickly, “Lord Cameron, sir, that is.”
“What? Is the man not still a free Englishman with rights! Come on, man, what has this to do with anything? I’m telling you, Sergeant, yes, we’ve been having a tea party. Elizabeth and I were sipping a warm berry brew when you so rudely interrupted us. I wish privacy now. I have been harassed quite enough for the night, as have these good people, I am quite sure. Am I understood?”
“Oh, quite, milord, yes!” The sergeant snapped to a salute. “Yes, milord. Good night, milord.”
Milord. Milord Cameron. Frederick smiled. He had heard of the man. He had fought, leading a band of Virginians, in the French and Indian Wars. He sat on the Governor’s Council in Virginia. He was immensely wealthy, with estates in the colonies, the islands, and in England. But he had stood in the line of battle again and again, defying bullets, so they claimed. He could do more than shoot Indians, he could speak their language. He was powerful, yes, and by God, he was a member of an elite peerage, but he was an American, too, so it was sworn. Virginia was not Massachusetts, the seeds of discontent were not so fully sown there as here, but she was a great colony, creating great statesmen.
This man sat on the Governor’s Council instead of in the House of Burgesses. The Councilmen were appointed for life, a great honor. He should be loyal to the Crown. And still, Frederick realized, Lord Cameron had saved
his
life.
The door was shut and bolted. Elizabeth fell against the door, trembling. “I shall faint—”
“You mustn’t madam, I beg of you!” he said, and drew her up.
“You’ve saved us once again. Oh, milord, our lives are yours! Whatever you wish—”
“I wish a long, potent drink!” Eric laughed. “And a word with your husband.”
Elizabeth nodded and glanced worriedly toward Frederick. Then she hurried toward the kitchen, and Eric approached Frederick. He pulled up a chair and straddled it,and stared at the printer. “I want to know about it. I want to know about tonight.”
“But you must know—”
“I know nothing. I’m a Virginian. I’m here on business, and I stumbled upon you.”
Frederick inhaled and exhaled. The man was tough, and he wanted answers.
“We didn’t want it to happen—”
“Don’t tell me that. The trouble has been brewing here since the Boston ‘Massacre’ in 1770.”
Frederick exhaled. The Boston Massacre had actually been a street fight. About fifty citizens, infuriated by the soldiers within the city, had attacked a British sentinel. Captain Preston, the British officer in charge, had brought more soldiers, and they had fired into the crowd. Three people were killed, eight were wounded, and two of the wounded later died. A town meeting had been called, and the British had agreed to let the captain stand trial for murder. John Adams and Josiah Quincy had been his defense counselors, and he had been acquitted of murder—it couldn’t be proven that he had ordered his men to fire into the crowd. Two soldiers were found guilty of manslaughter, and they were branded on their hands and dismissed from the service. Speechmakers and politicians, eager to keep sentiment high against the British, had termed the event the Boston Massacre.
“We did not intend this!” Frederick insisted. “Milord,” he added quietly. Then he lifted his chin. “Ask around, among your friends, and you will discover the truth. The British offered the British East India Company a rebate for tea sold in America. The tea was to be consigned to certain individuals. There would have been a monopoly on the tea, and our local merchants would have been put out of business. It was a government move to enforce the tea tax, milord, can you understand? The Committee of Correspondence refused to permit these tea-laden ships to land, and we appealed to Governor Hutchinson to
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