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He shook his head emphatically, “I will
not
live as a fenced-in ‘subject,’ John, permitted no lawful fences of his own against predators, lawful or otherwise.”
    Ramshaw regarded his young protégé with some admiration, and with some sadness. “Wisdom, son: You are rich with it, richer than a Spanish silver mine. But I don’t envy you the burden of it.”
    Jack laughed. “Sometimes,” he confided, “I don’t envy myself for it. But when I am in such a desperate mood, I imagine the alternative — ignorance — and then the burden is not so onerous.”
    The captain laughed in turn. “Spoken without a shred of modesty
or
vanity! I don’t wonder that the good minister in town detests you!”
    Jack studied his guest with fondness. Ramshaw’s hair was almost pure white now, peppered with the fading black of his youth. The weatherworn face was frozen in an unalterable mask of age, ruddy and beaten by countless gales and winter crossings of the Atlantic. “Every voyage is a lifetime,” Ramshaw once told him. “So don’t be surprised if I grow old faster than you — or not at all.”
    Ramshaw seemed to know his thoughts. He sipped his coffee, and said, “I plan to retire after a few more voyages, Jack, and enjoy my ill-gotten gains. When and where, depends on what those coggers and caitiffs in London do to the trade. You know that I have a house at Great Yarmouth, in Norfolk, and another I rent to a Scots merchant in Norfolk on the Roads here. You also know that I have acquired all the shares of the
Sparrowhawk
. When I retire, I shall retain some interest in her, but sail her no more.”
    It was Jack’s turn to smile sadly at his friend. “You will miss the voyage, and the grand game with the Crown.”
    “True,” said Ramshaw. “I will miss those things, and much more. Now, you are not my principal client here, but you are my favorite. I should not like to see you at the mercy of some law-abiding master or captain of the
Sparrowhawk
. I have some candidates as my predecessor in mind. But, as a ship’s husband — and that would require a certain investment — you would have some say in her business and comings and goings.” He paused when he saw his host frown. “I know that you are not as enamored of the sea as I am. But give it some thought through the winter, and we will talk again when I return in the spring.”
    Jack nodded. “This is not to be taken as an answer,” he said, “but, after breakfast, you might do me the honor of showing her to me again. It has been some time since I last trod her decks.”

Chapter 3: The Soloists
    A t the end of the one-week session of the General Assembly in January, Lieutenant-Governor Fauquier felt free to schedule a February concert at the Palace. Friendly and lively company, refined conversation, and music were his ways of escaping the tedious and often risky duties of office, a means of reminding himself that another, far more enjoyable realm existed over which the chores of empire had little influence. He planned, of course, to perform some numbers himself, together with other musical talents who lived in Williamsburg.
    Among the latter was a young law student, a tall, red-headed, lanky lad who was reading law under the wing of George Wythe, the town’s most eminent attorney. This fellow was not only proficient with the violin, but bright, argumentative, and affable. The Governor often invited him to the Palace to sup, to engage in provocative and speculative conversation, and to perform in the company of the town’s other appreciative and enlightened residents.
    His secretary sent invitations to the concert to many of these luminaries, and also to those in the outlying towns. Hugh Kenrick received one, as did Reece Vishonn and his wife. In his acceptance of the invitation, Hugh appended an unusual query: Would His Honor be gracious enough to work into his program some numbers performed by Miss Etáin McRae of Caxton on her harp? “Her impressive