Chapter 12: A Williamsburg Affair
- Colonial-NewYorker
- Aug 31
- 8 min read
XII
A Williamsburg Affair
Virginia, October 31st, 1765†
Caesar sat bowed over a large account book, his mind muddled by the many numbers and figures on the page. He had saturated himself in the mathematical discipline that was estate-management since he was but a boy, yet alongside the profession came little profit. He would wake every morning an hour before dawn, when the rays of sunlight had yet to stream through the window by his desk, and struggle at the pen by candlelight and by sunrise his mouth would be dry, and his hands stained black with ink. He was careful not to stain his clothes, made from fine English fabrics and French silks, imported from Europe, for indeed he was most fortunate in his attire. He was so very proud of his dress, in fact, that he would rather lose a finger than spoil his outfit. Yet, one could argue that it was one of those dark ironies of life, that Caesar’s namesake was the triumphant Roman who conquered unruly Gaul and forced Italy to her knees, who occupied the highest station of life, that of emperor. For Caesar, though dressed in the outward appearance of the well-to-do, was but a lowly slave who kept his master’s books.
Caesar was a Virginia born slave, nurtured by the household of Peyton Randolph of Williamsburg, who was his master, and though his mother died birthing him, his wet-nurse had conveyed quixotic tales of his parentage. His mother, so she said, was an Egyptian noblewoman from Alexandria who had the misfortune of being kidnapped whilst she was traveling in a caravan on the outskirts of her country. It was in the dead of night when she was abandoned by those whom she loved, and was sent away on a grueling sea voyage, passage paid for by the Atlantic slave trade. Of his father, little was known, only that he practiced the Islamic faith, and so much resented his English captors, to the point at which life in bondage was so burdensome and melancholic that he forced the hands of his master to end his life. Caesar was suspicious of these stories, having thought it odd that, though the wet-nurse could relate such romantic tales, she hadn’t in her ancient memory the names of his parents. However, before she died, the deadly pox having taken her in the year 1756, she revealed to him his birth name, and whether it be true or not, he kept it close to his heart, Hameem, which in her dying breath she said meant friend in the Arabic tongue. These memories were of little consequence to Caesar, however, for as far as he knew, his solar system was Williamsburg, and the Sun, his master, Peyton Randolph. All that he perceived revolved around these spheres, and his bondage eternally compelled him to gravitate around his illustrious star.
This evening, Caesar was to finish his daily task of editing the accounts of the household in Williamsburg and the subsidiary plantations owned and operated by the Randolph family, and then to transport legal documents, resolves, and other assorted forms to the Capitol Building where his master, the Attorney General of the Colony of Virginia, sat among the learned throngs of lawyers and politicians. Before he left, he noticed that among the state-papers requested by Mr. Randolph was an issue of the Virginia Gazette containing the “late resolves of the House of Burgesses”, political matters of which Caesar was not entirely ignorant, and he could see his master’s spidery pen in the margins no doubt engaging in debate with the contents. Directly below, was the familiar advertisement:
“To be sold at publick auction, the 1st of the month,
Opposite the Courthouse,
Sundry exceedingly fine NEGROES”
After lingering his gaze upon the advertisement, he took up the papers and walked outside into the autumn air. The heavens shone as the fiery sun westered amid a waveless sea of blue, and the air was so very fresh and clean that Caesar breathed deeply, drinking in the chill like summer-wine. Locking the front door, he started on Queen Street to the glorious and broad lane that was Duke of Gloucester Street. Standing almost a hundred feet across, Duke of Gloucester Street stretched from the College of William and Mary to the west and the Capitol Building to the east. In between stood assorted buildings of brick, stone, and wood; various taverns, private houses, coffee houses, the courthouse and adjacent to it, the armory magazine. During daytime hours, many colored coaches led by chestnut mares, bright white stallions, and peppered horses carried passengers to and from the Capitol Building. On this day, the many glazed windows were illuminated with pure-white candlelight, in celebration of the Anglican feast of All Hallows Eve, so a starry glow brightened the road, and Caesar was exceptionally merry.
Caesar walked quickly on the edge of the road towards the giant structure that was the Capitol Building. When he walked out of doors, as was natural for one of his station, on account of societal deference, he would walk in the shit-scattered street rather than on the walkways, or, if no freeman walked in opposition, he would take the rare liberty of walking as he wished. On this evening, however, the way was alarmingly silent, and the further he walked the sooner it became apparent why. As he neared the Capitol, he noticed a crowd had gathered near its western wall and standing near the cast-iron entrance gate was a well-dressed man who stood at the center of the crowd’s attention. Caesar approached another slave who stood among the crowd, a mulatto from the looks of his amber skin, and asked, “Sir, forgive me, but what’s all the fuss about?” and the slave, in his broken English and West-Indian accent, said “‘Tis a stamp collector he is, Mr. Mercer I heard he call.” “What is his business?” but before the slave could answer, a white man interrupted, saying, “Caesar! What brings you here?” “Mr. Wythe Sir, I’m dropping off some papers for my master. I was walking to the Capitol, and here I am.” “As you are Caesar, it seems you arrived just…” but the lawyerly man was cut short, as Mr. George Mercer, the stamp collector before the crowd, began:
“I stand in candor before you, to give some assurances to my country, which, in the highest propriety, are wanting. I accepted the commission of stamps, for which no judicious man can blame me, under such times and pretenses that the late Act of Parliament was wholly sanctioned by the laws of England and of this province, for the late resolves issued from the House of Burgesses, and I admit cognizance of them, were at that time little more than rumored papers circulating amongst private hands. However, as it has come to my attention, through the many animadversions and insults by persons whom I will not name and having witness of my very person paraded about in effigy among the port of this province at Yorktown, I find it necessary to comment upon the displeasure aroused by my office. The commission so disagreeable to my countrymen was entirely unasked for, and I assure you, friends, that I had no hand in the assistance of the Stamp Act, either abroad or here at home. Thus, gentlemen, I should be glad now to act in such manner as would justify myself to my friends and countrymen here in Virginia, and further, I will withhold the duty of my commission, and shall not proceed in the execution of my office until such times as I shall receive further orders from England, and then, only will I act alongside the assurance of our General Assembly here in this province of Virginia.”
“Thank the heavens,” Mr. Wythe said, still standing beside Caesar. George Wythe, forgetting the presence of the slave, walked into the crowd, joining the gentlemen who now huzza’d and congratulated Mr. Mercer, who, in his very dispassionate plea, convinced his countrymen that the Stamp Act would not for a time find sanction in the Colony of Virginia. Caesar walked silently past the crowd, who were now escorting the former stamp collector toward the Raleigh Tavern, no doubt to toast to his health and to the benevolence of the King and Queen. Mr. Mercer had apparently forgotten of the various “animadversions and insults” to his person previously espoused, for once on “liberty’s” side, harsh words and harsher actions faded away in the convivial brotherhood of conformity.
Upon entering the brick wall surrounding the yard of the dual-chambered legislative building, Caesar looked upward at the towering steeple, adorned in the royal arms of the late Queen Ann and crowned by the Union Jack, fluttering on the breeze in its trinity of red, white, and blue, and he felt so very small. Through the windows of the terrace, which connected both chambers of the building, Caesar could see the Burgesses and Councilors walking back and forth, wrapped in powdered wigs and courtly coats, amidst the honorable state-business of running the province. As a slave, he was not permitted entrance, so he sat on a wooden bench near the gate and waited for his master.
He did not have to wait long, for quite soon a jovial man who was rather rotund and red-faced walked out of the building. He was dressed in a lime-green coat of silk, with elaborate silver cuffs and buttons, a shiny black cocked hat upon his long-haired periwig (in the style common of judges in the province, as Caesar had seen from time to time) frilled with a white cockade, who strutted towards Caesar with a rather regal gait. “Caesar, I’ve been waiting for quite a while,” said his master, Peyton Randolph, not unkindly, “I beg your pardon, Master Randolph, I was held at the entrance by a crowd, a Mr. Mercer was talking about the stamps.” Peyton took off his hat and wig, and, pulling out a linen handkerchief, wiped beady sweat off his forehead, saying, “Well, what did he have to say?” and Caesar answered, “He said he wouldn’t execute his office, Sir.” “Did he now? Well, that might satisfy the mob, though we cannot expect the silence to last much longer. No matter, hand me my papers, and be sure to head back straight away, we’re having guests for supper, Betsy will need your assistance in the kitchens.” “Yes Sir,” Caesar said, bowing in deference to his master, and, Peyton said, whilst he left the courtyard, “Don’t forget my mail on the way.”
⁂
† Dearest reader, it is at this point in the text that I would beseech you to pay careful attention to dates, as the three principal characters of this narrative have overlapping timelines that eventually merge, and for the entire effect of the story to truly rest easy in your mind, it will be necessary to untangle the times and days on which the main events of the narrative happens. Often, major plot developments will occur on the very same day, for example, Chapter 1 began on the 1st of November and continued well past the 5th until this current chapter, which brings us back one full day before the events of Chapter 1, to October 31st, 1765.
Warning: The Yellow Cardinal contains adult themes that may not be suitable for all audiences under the age of 18. Some chapters may contain descriptions of graphic scenarios including but not limited to: suggestive materials, violence, 18th century racism and slavery, sexism, etc. Read with caution and/or parental permission.
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