“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 ratherliked 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, whomade 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 letit 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.
9
A variety of imployment gives my thoughts a relief from melloncholy subjects, tho’ ’tis but a temporary one.
Eliza Lucas Pinckney
Juliet sat at her father’s desk, having arranged the letter books and ledgers into manageable stacks, making a note that new ones were needed. At least the dog days of August and the lingering burn of September were now a memory. Today the house was even cool, the shutters open.
Inking her quill, she recorded the latest field work and other happenings.
