CHAPTER 5
The ale at The Laughing Fox was the best in Philadelphia. Nat was so adamant about its quality that he was almost willing to fight any man who said otherwise. Here was a beverage to be savored rather than gulped. Even amidst the unpleasant mix of odors that hung in the air in the stuffy tavern, he found himself letting the cup sit in front of him for a moment, simply taking in its bread-like aroma.
“You aim to drink that beer or make love to it?” a gruff voice from down the bar asked.
Nat ignored the man, who let out a drunken guffaw as he slapped the counter, jostling every glass or plate all down the line. He picked up his cup and headed toward the back of the tavern. He intended to enjoy several of these ales before the day was done and his enjoyment would be greatly increased if he drank as far away as possible from men such as that one.
Settling in at a small table, he put glass to lips and enjoyed his first sip, holding it in his mouth briefly to experience the full flavor. A few swallows later a pair of men sat down somewhere off to his right. One of the peculiar things about The Laughing Fox--something that endeared it to a man in Nat’s particular line of work--was that sound did not carry at all as one might expect. There were dead spots where a man practically had to shout in order to make himself heard and other places where even the softest whisper would carry to the other side of a room. Seated where he was now, Nat could hear every word the two men were saying as if the three of them were touching elbows. He fancied himself not so much an eavesdropper and a gossip as a collector and purveyor of useful information. It could be a lucrative enterprise.
“‘Twasn’t hard at all really,” said the first man. He had a deep voice with just a hint of a London accent, something that was not all that uncommon even these days.
“But how did you manage not to get caught, doing it right out in public like that?” asked the second, apparently younger man. At least Nat would have sworn that the tenor of his voice placed him at no more than thirty years old.
“Well, there’s public and then there’s public, see. You can get away with most things if you choose the right time and know your mark.”
Here, thought Nat, was a possible fellow traveler. He never missed a good opportunity to hone the tools of his trade.
“Watch their routines, gather information, and think it through. Far too many men rush in before they really consider all the angles. This gent was as predictable as they come. So it took only three of us: one to deliver the message, one to keep eyes on him, and one to drive the horses. That doctor never knew what hit him and we must have been halfway back on the road north to Pennsylvania before anyone even passed by to alert the watch. Even then no one would have ever doubted that it was anything other than an unfortunate accident.”
The deep-voiced man let a chuckle slip. That seemed to amuse the second man who let out a laugh of his own.
“With all these gentlemen on their way here for their little convention, we can be sure that there will be more of the same sort of work. More than enough to go around for all of us. We just have to keep our heads down until then. If you get pinched for something stupid then you’ll be no good to anyone.”
“Quite right,” said the second man.
Nat just took all of this in. He had bits and pieces of a story, but not yet enough to know whether he had overheard something of much significance. Many men had enemies, so for one to have gotten himself killed by some ruffians was not at all unusual. Although Nat drew the line at using a bit of forceful persuasion to collect a debt, not everyone who engaged in the trade held the same scruples. Killing a debtor might foreclose any hope of securing full payment, but there were those who believed that such retribution certainly would deter future debtors from attempting to skip out on their responsibilities.
The two men moved on to topics of seemingly much less consequence and Nat finished the last of his ale. It was far too good to stop at just one and so he ordered another.
It was bound to be such a beautiful late spring day that Camden was sorry that so much of it would be spent in an enclosed coach. He was to meet Mr. Monroe at the coach’s departure point before the sun scarcely had time to crest the roofs of the surrounding buildings and houses. Upon arriving, he saw Mr. Monroe awaiting him in the coach and what must have been his trunk loaded on the back. Camden enlisted the help of one of the porters in securing his own trunk in place and then climbed inside.
“Good morning, Mr. Monroe. Mr. Randolph sends his regrets that he could not see us off this morning. He is to meet with a client early this morning and needed to look over a contract before doing so.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” replied Monroe, who was busy reading the previous day’s copy of the Virginia Independent Chronicle.
“Is there anything of note?” Camden asked before Mr. Monroe completely engrossed himself again.
Mr. Monroe flipped a page or two, folded the paper in half and passed it to Camden, directing his attention to short story at the bottom of the page.
“It seems that the publisher, Mr. Davis, is not altogether fond of the idea that I shall be present at proceedings in Philadelphia.”
Camden began to read and realized that Mr. Monroe had made a very charitable understatement. The story ran under the line “Henry’s Mercenary Sent to Philadelphia to Stifle Convention.” The story was not attributed to any author, but that was a fairly common practice, Camden had come to learn, especially when the owner of the publication was involved.
“Having passed the point at which it is too late for the General Assembly to correct the grievous error of appointing Mr. James Monroe as a delegate to the Philadelphia convention,” the article stated, “Virginia can now only hope that the more qualified voices such as those of Mr. James Madison will represent us well to the rest of the United States. Too much is now at stake for our union than for its fate to be entrusted to novices and those held under the sway of others who would rather burn down our own house than raise a finger to repair its obvious faults.”
Camden could hardly believe what he was reading. He had known that Mr. Henry and Mr. Monroe were not universally well-liked, but this sort of vitriol caught him off guard. He paused to look up and saw that Mr. Monroe had been watching, likely hoping to gauge his reaction.
“Mr. Monroe, this is--”
“Yes, it is. Do you now better understand that which you have undertaken? This is only the beginning. I will likely absorb most of the blows, of course, but there is no guarantee that your reputation will remain untarnished due to your association with me, and by extension with Mr. Henry.”
“I understand. I am prepared for these sorts of attacks. I only suppose that I did not expect them to be launched against you before you had even left the city.”
“Good morning!” came an approaching voice. They both turned to look and saw that it was Mr. Randolph.
“Good morning, Mr. Randolph,” said Monroe, stepping down out of the coach to meet their visitor. “Mr. Page had told me that you would not be able to see us off. This is a pleasant surprise indeed.”
“Thank you for saying so, Mr. Monroe. I came to wish a good journey as well as good fortune in pursuing your important work.”
Turning to Camden, Mr. Randolph showed a small stack of books. “These are for you,” he said. Camden took them and set them on the seat next to him. He saw no need to bother the porters to dig up his trunk for something so trivial. Noticing the titles of the books, his attention was drawn to one in particular, a novel by Henry Fielding titled Amelia. The others were clearly books that Mr. Randolph expected him to read and be tested on when he returned.
“Mr. Randolph, there seems to be one book here by mistake.”
“No, that’s no mistake, Mr. Page. You must exercise every bit of your mind to become a good attorney. We must not only know the law, but also the human condition, and there are few better ways to do that than to read well-written works of fiction. I only ask that you do not open that particular book until you have left Richmond.”
Camden thought that to be a somewhat queer request, but he had no reason to do anything other than comply with it. “Certainly, sir, and I thank you. I will write often, as you have instructed.”
“I look forward to it and be sure to help Mr. Monroe in whatever manner he might choose to employ you. I’ve already sent word to my former partner, Mr. Johnson, who will be supervising your apprenticeship in my absence. Be sure to introduce yourself as soon as possible after you arrive.”
“I’ll be sure that he does exactly that, Mr. Randolph,” Monroe offered. He climbed back into the coach and situated himself for the journey ahead.
“I’ll be on my way then,” said Mr. Randolph. “Take care, Mr. Page.”
“Thank you, Mr. Randolph.” Camden too climbed into the coach again and set the books on his lap, awaiting the arrival of the other passengers.
Camden and Mr. Monroe were joined--mercifully, Camden thought--by only two other passengers. The coach would have seated six if necessary, but with a consequent diminishing of comfort. Although the largest city he had ever seen, Camden found that the time required for them to actually leave Richmond was not very long at all.
Too curious to wait, Camden took the copy of Amelia from the bottom of the stack and opened to the title page. Rather than the front matter of the book, however, he found a letter which had been inserted in the book’s pages. On the outside, it was addressed to him in what appeared to be Mr. Randolph’s handwriting. He opened it, seeing that the letter itself was not written in Mr. Randolph’s hand, and read:
Dear Mr. Page,
I regret that our correspondence must begin in this manner, done in secret rather than in the full light of day. Circumstances, however, dictate that it must be so, at least for now. I can only imagine how you were affected by the letter you received stating my father’s insistence that you not be allowed to see me. Despite the very brief nature of our first meeting at my uncle’s house, I hope I am correct in my conclusion that my desire to make a closer acquaintance of you is one that you share.
If so, and if you would not dismiss the idea as too forward on my part, my uncle has agreed to assist us in corresponding with one another. I have no intention of violating the instruction that I not see you in person, but I see no reason why we may not correspond in writing. To facilitate this arrangement, my uncle will accept your letters and deposit them in books that I borrow. He will do the same with my letters to you and in this way we may write to one another in confidence.
I pray you will have as pleasant a journey as possible and await eagerly the arrival of your reply.
Georgiana Burwell
Richmond, Virginia
May 4, 1787
By the time he reached the end, Camden was sure that he must have been beaming from ear to ear. As he boarded the coach earlier that morning, it was not lost on him that not only was he far away from any meaningful interaction with the beautiful young woman over whose handwriting he now pored, but his journey would take him physically far away from her as well. Even the thought of a chance encounter would have been lost to him. Now, however, his heart soared. True, he was left with no way to even merely be in her presence, but the prospect of interacting with the mind of the woman who had so impressed him upon that first encounter was more than adequate consolation. Indeed, it was no mere consolation at all, but a surpassing joy.
That he could not keep his joy inside was made clear to him when Mr. Monroe broke him out of his thoughts.
“I take it you have received some very good news in that letter, Mr. Page? Not meaning to pry, of course.”
“Yes, Mr. Monroe, I most certainly have.” Camden folded the letter and put it back in the book, resolving not to read it again just yet.
Seeing this, Mr. Monroe gave a knowing nod of the head and went back to his newspaper.
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