And the gentlemen of Boston toasted the President.

Then Washington stood slowly and raised his glass to Pratt. “To you, Mr….”

“Pratt. Horace Taylor Pratt.”

“To you, Mr. Pratt, and to all your peers in Boston. We certainly hope that your snuff comes from fine Virginia tobacco.” Washington smiled, and everyone else laughed politely.

Pratt had introduced himself to the President. When he spoke out later, Washington would know him. He finished his wine and sat down as conversation began again in the banquet hall.

“I must offer Mr. Washington some of my English snuff after the ceremony,” whispered Pratt to his son.

“English snuff?”

Mather Byles leaned into the conversation. “Your father may have bad manners, Horace, but he has excellent taste in snuff.”

“The English know how to make it,” explained Pratt, “along with most other things.”

“You have such admiration for British craftsmanship,” said Byles, “I sometimes wonder that you weren’t a Tory.”

“Reverend, fourteen years ago, the British Crown stood between me and a fortune. Had men like me remained loyal, the British would still be here, and I’d still be poor.”

“You’d still have your left arm.”

“A small price to pay.” Pratt smiled, but he showed no pleasure. His deep-set eyes and prominent nose gave him the look of a predator, a man who never rested. Although he was only thirty-nine, his gaunt frame had already begun to bow and his hair showed considerably more gray than black.

Byles looked at the empty sleeve. “You never know when you might need two arms, Horace.”

“My son is my left arm, Reverend, stronger and more reliable than my own limb.” Pratt wrapped his right arm around the boy’s shoulders.

Byles looked at young Horace. “Does the boy enjoy being one of his father’s extremities?”

Horace didn’t notice the sarcasm. “I’m a Pratt, Reverend. One day, I’ll take my place at the head of Pratt Shipping and Mercantile. It is in my best interest to help my father in whatever way I can.”

“The warmest of filial sentiments,” said Byles.

The sound of silver tapping gently on a crystal wineglass interrupted the conversation. John Hancock was ringing for quiet.

“Watch closely,” whispered Pratt to his son. “Your lesson for today is about to begin.”

“Mr. President and gentlemen,” began Hancock, “you will forgive me for not standing, but the gout keeps me in my chair.”

“Three days ago, Hancock was strutting around like one of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers,” whispered Byles. “He has no gout.”

“The silly ass is play-acting,” said Pratt. “When the presidential entourage arrived, Hancock wouldn’t visit Washington until Washington visited him. Some foolishness about the governor being sovereign in the state and the President merely his guest. Washington would have none of it and browbeat Hancock into paying the first call. To save his pampered face, Hancock announced that he was indisposed because of the gout. He had his feet wrapped in bandages, ordered three men to carry him to his carriage, and then from his carriage into the President’s lodgings, where he visited Washington like some Catholic martyr.”

“And the charade continues,” said Byles.

“Aye. He wouldn’t visit Washington’s living quarters, but now he’s about to kiss Washington’s hindquarters.”

Hancock was reaching one of the flourishes in his speech. “It is being said, Your Excellency, that men from Massachusetts and men from Virginia led the Revolution, and together we will lead a new nation into the nineteenth century. Let it be so. From the South will come abundant food and raw materials.