Chapter 8
8
Have had either Bacon or Chickens every meal since I came into this Country. If I still continue in this way shall be grown over with Bristles or Feathers.
Nicholas Cresswell’s journal, 1774, upon visiting Maryland
Y ORK T OWN , V IRGINIA O CTOBER 1774
Twenty-six days after leaving Glasgow, Leith stood at the ship’s rail as the Thistle sailed into Chesapeake Bay. What had transpired in his absence? The twins he wasn’t worried about, as Lyrica was the best of caretakers. His business affairs were in his brothers’ hands. But his colonial concerns were another matter. Virginia’s sweet-scented tobacco was known for its quality, bore his mark, and fetched an unusually high price in London and elsewhere. Given that, why were so many planters abandoning tobacco?
As the ship neared port, the shoreline’s jagged contours sharpened, autumn turning the town bright as a pumpkin. Scarlet oaks flamed amid golden maples behind a wall of warehouses and storefronts. An immense windmill he recalled from years before loomed on a cliff above a creek. Up the hill from Water Street a kirk spire pierced the leaden sky, but he was most interested in slaking his thirst and regaining his land legs. York Town boasted a staggering number of taverns within walking distance. He could practically smell the ale awash from Water Street.
“I recommend the Indian Queen or the Swan Tavern on Main Street, though the Black Thistle and Prince George on the outskirts will suffice,” Captain Coffin told him. “But when in Williamsburg, only the Raleigh will do. You’re headed for the James River if I recall.”
“In time,” Leith replied, his attention on the town unfolding before his eyes. He’d spend a night or two in York Town. Business called for it. He had a few matters to settle at the customhouse with the custom agent. “I’ll see Williamsburg once I get my bearings. I’ll meet with my factors and clerks here first.”
“Your stores extend to Maryland, aye?”
“My father’s stores foremost.” Leith ignored the pained memory and forced a half smile. “I simply crack the whip on occasion.”
“Since you’ve been here before, you needn’t be told that Shaw’s coffeehouse and chocolate shop are the finest establishments in York Town, especially for news in the Americas and abroad.”
“Duly noted,” Leith replied.
But first, pleasure.
The sharp crack of billiard balls was a satisfying, familiar sound. Leith didn’t miss the looks of appreciation—nae, surprise—cast his way in the crowded game room. He rather liked the anonymity of York Town. Few knew who he was, just another Scotsman like so many who landed on Virginia’s shores. He’d not told anyone his name save for signing the guest registry in an undecipherable scrawl upon his arrival at the Swan Tavern. He’d even shed his cocked hat and coat down to sark, waistcoat, breeches, and boots.
Now afternoon, the taproom and dining room were overflowing. He rather liked these forthright Americans, though something told him, from the conversations rumbling around him over tankards of ale and playing cards, that these colonials weren’t content with the Crown but besotted with the notion of independence.
“I’ve not seen ye around these parts before,” a man remarked near the bar. “Yer not an Englander, are ye?”
“Nae, a Scot,” Leith said. “And as such, not overfond of German tyrants who claim to be king.”
“Farmer George?” another jested. “Yer in good company here. Praise be a whole ocean’s between us and them.”
Joining the game, Leith chalked his cue stick with its leather tip as the tavern keeper returned the port to its starting position. His opponent, a burly, pockmarked Virginian named Farr, wasted no time telling Leith he was the undisputed Tidewater champion. Starting another round, Leith eyed the men circling the room who’d begun to place bets on the match.
Candlelight reflected off ivory balls and highly polished mahogany sticks. The cloth-covered green table, crafted by a Williamsburg cabinetmaker, was so exquisitely detailed it rivaled his own at Ardraigh Hall. Leith began the match with a single stroke, sending his ball within an inch of the target.
Farr circled the table like a hawk about to land on its prey. “Well done, Sannock.”
The derogatory Scots name was not lost on Leith, who made no comment as Farr placed his ball even closer to the king. Now the leader for their round, he quickly lost his edge when Leith sent his ball backward through the port.
“Crivens, Farr!” a man yelled. “He’s bested ye!”
Spitting out an epithet, Farr selected a new stick. “I intend to hazard Sannock’s ball.”
He took a second turn, passing his ball through the port with a smoothness that sent another murmur through the room. Leith followed, pushing his ball through the port and Farr’s into the king, thus bringing it down.
Another voice rang out among cheers and jeers. “The Scot’s the winner!”
With an exaggerated move likely fueled by an abundance of ale, Farr aimed his stick like a javelin. It flew over the table toward Leith, who caught it in a lightning-quick move before it struck him. He stayed stoic though his pulse ratcheted. Drunken men made poor opponents and poorer enemies.
“Ho, there!” the tavern keeper cried as Leith handed him the stick. “That’s five shillings, Farr, and ye forfeit the game!”
Coming round the table, Farr roared an unintelligible reply. Leith stood his ground, ducking too late as the man’s ham hock of a fist found his eye. A searing pain momentarily blinded him before he lunged at Farr in a bid to knock him down. Farr grabbed another stick and swung it at Leith, whose raised arm broke the game piece in two before he sent Farr to the plank floor.
“Gentlemen, I beg ye!” The tavern keeper’s voice was nearly lost in the fracas as Leith returned to where he’d been standing, the table between him and Farr.
A sudden, strained hush held the room still. Pulling himself to his feet, Farr fumbled inside his waistcoat. The flash of candlelight on metal was all the warning Leith needed. He reached for an ivory ball, reared back, and let it fly, hitting Farr between the eyes so soundly the thwack resounded around the room. Farr keeled over onto the floor, and Leith looked at the silver-mounted pistol atop the planks.
He kicked the weapon into a corner before handing the sweating tavern keeper a small sack of gold coins. “For any losses, ye ken.”
Leith left the game room, the weight of his own pistol in a side pocket reassuring. But somewhere in the melee he’d lost a silver cuff link engraved with his initials.
Wheest.
These colonials needed a warmer welcome for their guests.