Russell L. McAndrews
Chapter 8: Excess
- Thomas Harcourt’s record room, second floor, late Friday night, 28 March 1755
Julian lifted one of the ledgers.
It contained copies of land patents, with descriptions arranged alphabetically by the patentee’s surname. Thomas had written corrections in the margins, sometimes adding references to other volumes. Several entries had been marked with a small cross enclosed within a circle.
Julian turned the pages.
The symbol appeared beside tracts in York, James City, New Kent, and Charles City Counties. Some descriptions dated back decades. Others were recent.
In several places, Thomas had written the same word. “Excess.”
“What does that mean?” Pike asked.
Julian read one entry. “A patent for twelve hundred acres. Thomas has calculated the boundaries as described and written that they contain more.”
“How much more?” asked Pike.
“One hundred and forty-seven acres,” replied Julian.
“Can someone just add a few acres to a boundary?” asked Pike disbelieving.
“Words can do nearly anything once entered into the proper book,” replied Julian. He examined another entry.
A tract described as eight hundred acres contained closer to nine hundred and ten. A third exceeded its stated acreage by almost eighty.
The differences were too large to be explained by ordinary imprecision or accidental miscalculation, yet each boundary description appeared plausible: a marked oak, a branch of a creek, a line of so many poles, another tree, then back to the beginning.
Land had been added without increasing the number written at the head of the patent. The owner received more acreage than he officially possessed.
Julian turned farther. One marked entry belonged to Ambrose Rooke.
Pike saw the name. “That proves nothing.”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Julian. “Not yet.”
“You sounded disappointed,” noticed Pike.
“I dislike when caution arrives from unexpected men,” said Julian.
Pike moved toward the map drawers. “Colonel Rooke owns land across several counties. Men say he knows the value of ground before anyone else knows the ground exists.”
“An admirable talent,” stated Julian.
“Or a profitable one,” retorted Pike. Julian nodded.
Julian studied the calculations. Thomas had reconstructed each tract using bearings and distances. In several cases, he had drawn two outlines: one corresponding to the written survey, another corresponding to what he called ‘the walked line’.
The outlines did not agree.
On the final page, Thomas had written: ‘A boundary may be stolen once by the axe, twice by the chain, and a third by the clerk. The third theft endures the longest time.’
Julian read it twice. He remembered the pin misplaced beyond the chain on the York Road survey. The carrier had moved the line by several inches. Repeated through forest and over miles, small additions could accumulate. If the resulting surveys were copied onto a patent or processioning record, that error would become official.
The field might then be fenced according to the official record. A false measurement would acquire trees, roads, laborers, crops, inheritance, and eventually the appearance of history.
Pike picked up a rolled map. “Mr. Harcourt.”
Julian crossed the room.
The map showed the country around Williamsburg between the York and James river systems. Roads, waterways, plantations, and parish divisions had been added in several hands.
A long section had been cut from the center, not torn. Cut cleanly with a knife. The missing portion ran diagonally from the Queen’s Creek side toward College Creek.
Julian placed the map flat upon the table. “Did Thomas mark that area?”
Pike pointed to several dark spots along the cut edge. “Ink.”
Someone had removed the part containing Thomas’s annotations. Julian searched the table and floor. No matching piece remained.
The intruder may have taken it through the window moments before Julian entered. Or someone had removed it earlier and returned to find something else.
He looked around the room. The shelves, desk, mattress, floorboards, map drawers, and wall hangings had all been examined. Yet the silver in the kitchen remained. Thomas’s books had not been stolen. His instruments, though valuable, were untouched. The searchers wanted one specific object and did not know precisely where it had been hidden.
Julian turned slowly.
A clerk’s hiding place would not necessarily be secret in the manner expected by a thief. Thomas might conceal something not behind a false wall, but within an ordinary object whose arrangement only he understood.
Julian looked at the shelves. Books. Bundles. Boxes. Clocks!
Julian thought of the tall clock beneath the stairs, its weights recently disturbed. “Pike,” he called.
The driver looked up.
“Did Thomas repair clocks?” asked Julian.
“No,” answered Pike.
“Collect them?” asked Julian.
“He had several. Most did not agree,” replied Pike.
“That may have been intentional, my good man,” declared Julian.
They returned downstairs.