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courts, and perhaps even trying defendants in London. And his friend reports talk of a stamp tax on documents here, and reordering the customs establishment.”
    Ramshaw cocked his head. “I heard the same talk. Jack, there are now twenty-six colonies in the king’s dominion, but only thirteen worry their lordships, the gentlemen in the Commons, and the merchants.” He sipped some coffee. “We’ve talked of this before, son. The proclamation is only an overture. I do not know how it will end.”
    “It can end in only one of two ways, John: capitulation and slavery, or rebellion and independence.” Jack saw understanding in Ramshaw’s eyes, not shock or dismay. He saw acceptance. He raised a hand and briefly touched his heart. “That is the logic of the matter. There will be no middle ground. The logic will not permit one. No Act of Settlement is possible here, though I know that many well-meaning men will believe it is. But we are either free Englishmen, or Americans, or whatever we choose to call ourselves when the time for decisions comes — or we are not free. Even should the king and Parliament and the Board of Trade and the merchants relinquish their hold on us, separation is inevitable. It already exists. Some here and in London sense it; others know it. Else, why would the king and Parliament and the Board feel it imperative to begin encircling us with laws and troops and boundaries through the ruse of colonial security? And should it come to rebellion, the logic of the matter will allow only two choices to those who possess the power to act against the colonies: a peaceful separation, or war.”
    Jack sighed, and shook his head. “John, I wish it were in my ownpower to hasten the business, to be done with it. But if the logic leads to rebellion,
that
must be made in concert with other men, and I must wait for them to see the logic and the wisdom of it. I own that if I acted alone now, this day, or next year, those same men would send me to the gallows, as Redmagne and Skelly were.”
    Ramshaw, at that moment, could not help but remember Jack when he was a boy of twelve and a batman for a master smuggler in Cornwall. He felt an odd paternal pride in the way that boy had turned out, as a worthy heir to his old friend and fellow smuggler, Augustus Skelly. He said, in a low, ominous voice, “Not all rebellions are successful, my friend. Look at the Netherlands, and Turkish Greece, and Ireland. And England itself. The history books are strewn with the bodies of failed rebellions.”
    “The likelihood of failure is not a good excuse for not attempting one. Perhaps we should not be thinking of rebellion, but of revolution.”
    Ramshaw leaned forward in earnest. “Allow me to play the devil for a moment, Jack, and put this to you: I agree that today, or next year, you would be condemned to hang for treason and strung from a pole near the race course that’s just beyond the Capitol in Williamsburg. So, what makes you believe rebellion or revolution is possible? In Virginia, and Maryland, and New York, and Philadelphia, men continue to toast to the king’s health. I have seen no evidence of rebellion in them. A talent for bickering, and for smuggling, perhaps. But for rebellion? No.”
    “It is there,” replied Jack. “The Crown’s likely actions will provoke it to action, in time.” If men can rally to the cause of that Wilkes fellow in England, graver protests are possible here. I am as certain of that as you are certain of a storm at sea by knowing the nature of the clouds you see in the distance over untroubled waters.”
    Ramshaw nodded, then asked, somehow already knowing the thrust of the answer, “And if a rebellion happens, and it fails? Or if it ends the other way, without a rebellion, but with ignoble submission and slavery: What would
you
do?”
    Jack shrugged. “Find myself a new maze of caves, perhaps west of the Falls, in the Blue Ridge, and carry on Skelly’s and Redmagne’s careers.”