Empire (10 page)

Speaker Robinson acknowledged several more burgesses, all of whom he knew would speak against the rebellious member’s remarks, and who did. Then the tall, commanding figure of Colonel Washington rose. Robinson knew that he could not deny this man his words and, out of
respect, nodded to him.

Washington did not often speak in the House, and a special silence subdued the chamber as its occupants listened to the hero of the late war. “My attachment to civility and poise on all occasions is well known to this House, and frequently the subject of humor among certain of my colleagues. But, while I cannot fully agree with that member’s sentiments on how best to protest the mischief at hand in London, I do believe that we may in time be civil to a fault and to our egregious disadvantage.” Washington resumed his seat.

This surprising speech produced its own silence. Speaker Robinson pursed his mouth in regret. George Wythe sat staring at Washington, his eyes wide in shock. The burgesses who spoke against Hugh Kenrick sniffed in mortification. Thomas Jefferson regarded Washington with newfound awe. Edgar Cullis glanced in confusion at his colleague. Patrick Henry beamed.

And Hugh felt partly vindicated. He nodded in thanks to Washington across the space that separated them. Washington nodded imperceptively in acknowledgment.

Peyton Randolph, Edmund Pendleton, and Colonel Bland observed the silent communication, and made mental note of it.

Speaker Robinson took advantage of the hiatus. He tapped his cane once on the floor and announced, “The House is now closed to debate.” He waved the cane at the clerks’ table. “Mr. Randolph, please proceed with the vote.”

The remonstrance was passed unanimously.

* * *

When he left the Capitol that evening and stepped out into the creeping dusk and chill, it was with a sense of accomplishment, even though the address, memorial, and remonstrance were repugnant to his principles. He was certain that they would prove to be futile, and perhaps even achieve the opposite of their purpose. Wythe’s clerks were busy now and would work late into the night making copies of the documents for dispatch to several points: to the
Virginia Gazette
for publication; to interested parties in the lower houses of the Pennsylvania and Massachusetts legislatures; to London and the king, Parliament, the Board of Trade; to James Abercromby and Edward Montague. When he returned to Mary Gandy’s house this evening, he would make his own copies of the documents; he had
heard them read so many times over the last few weeks that their words were burned into his memory.

Outside the Capitol, Thomas Jefferson stopped to compliment Hugh on his speech. “That, sir, was
drama
!” he exclaimed. Other burgesses stopped to admit to him that they, too, were dissatisfied with the documents’ wordings, and confessed that they lacked the presence of mind to raise their own objections.

Edgar Cullis, on his way to supper at the Raleigh Tavern with several of his friends, sent his company on so that he could speak for a moment in private with his colleague. “Well, sir, you won’t be snubbed in the future! I will wager on it! What a maiden speech! What you tend to say often gives me the shivers, I don’t mind admitting it, but you may be right. And, God! What a stir you made! Randolph, Pendleton, Robinson, Bland, Wythe — he wrote the remonstrance, you know, and Bland the others — well, they are all in a royal pet! You’ve made no friends in that company, sir, but Colonel Washington practically seconded you, and that will count for something among them.” He paused. “Do you truly believe the style will make a difference?”

Hugh sighed. He was tired. He answered. “A proper, assertive style may have stayed Mr. Grenville’s hand, or at least given him grave pause for thought. The adopted style, however, will either provoke or entice him and his party.” Hugh patted his colleague’s arm and hoped he did not sound condescending. “Surely, Mr. Cullis, you know that as bees are lured by the pollen of flowers, bullies are drawn by the funk of the timid!”

“Well put, sir,” remarked Cullis. He laughed. “I am sure that if you had pronounced that maxim in the chamber, an even greater altercation would have occurred!” He paused. “Will you join me and my friends at the Raleigh?”

Hugh shook his head. “I am going directly to your cousin’s. I have personal business to see to. And it has been a trying day. Thank you for the invitation.”

After a brief exchange with Hugh on the House’s remaining business, Cullis bid his colleague goodnight and rushed away down Duke of Gloucester Street. A cold wind rustled the trees nearby and caused the flames of the Capitol’s cressets to whip nearly horizontally. Hugh buttoned up his long cloak, drew it closer around him, and turned to leave the Capitol grounds.

“A word with you, sir,” said a voice behind him.

Hugh turned and saw a man he had noticed earlier among the spectators in the House, in idle conversation while he listened to the clerk read the memorial to Lords. The man had a distinctive Roman character to his face, like one he had admired in a book of engravings in his library. As he came into the light of the cresset, Hugh saw that he wore a black cloak and a hat with a round brim. “Yes…?” answered Hugh.

The man approached and held out his hand. “I am Patrick Henry, of Hanover. I wish to commend you on your brave speech — and to thank you for one other thing.”

Hugh took the proffered hand and shook it. “Thank you, sir. And what is it that you have to thank me for?”

“For helping me make up my mind.”

“About what?”

Henry dug his hands into the pockets of his cloak. “I have for some time entertained the ambition of standing for burgess for the next session. You have helped me decide that I
must
follow that ambition.”

“How so, sir?”

“I had some business here in the House last month, and went home after it was done — though not to my satisfaction.”

Hugh remembered what young Jefferson had told him. “Oh, yes. The Dandridge and Littlepage matter.”

“Yes,” said Henry. “Well, that was more a favor for a friend than a serious case. I half expected my client’s suit to be dismissed, though not with the airs I smelled in that committee. But, here is my main point. I learned at that time that the House was proposing to act on information received from the House’s agent in London about the new taxes. I resolved then to return here to see for myself what would be done. I would rather have stayed in Hanover with my family and friends, but I journeyed here and attended all the debates on the papers to be sent to London. And, until you spoke, I thought I had wasted my time.”

Hugh shook his head. “I spoke but a minute, sir.”

Henry took a hand from his cloak and raised a finger. “But that one minute, sir, and what it precipitated, revealed to me certain aspects and habits of the House, and convinced me that certain things were possible. So — and I will not take up much more of your time, Mr…. ?”

“Hugh Kenrick, of Queen Anne County and Meum Hall therein.”

“…Mr. Kenrick — I shall enter politics here. I shall contrive to be elected burgess, either of Hanover or some neighboring county. There are
vacancies expected. I shall realize my ambition because I agree with you that these encroachments on our liberties, such as a captive freeman’s are, must be resisted. I agree that the encroachers must
know
they are observed and opposed. Forgive me for having overheard what you said to your friend a minute ago, about the bees and bullies, but if I had had the privilege of speaking to the House, that is what I would have said to it, at the risk of censure, expulsion, and even a program of duels with the offended!”

Hugh laughed for the first time in days. He took his hands from his own pockets and grasped the man’s shoulders. “You, sir, are of my own mettle! I have endured censure, expulsion, and even fought a few duels, all in the same spirit!”

Henry smiled. “I wish the word had a positive connotation, sir, but you
flatter
me. Whether my efforts will result in a Thermoplyae or a Marathon, I cannot predict.” He glanced once at the Capitol behind him. “There is a great weight of ballast to be moved in there.”

Hugh’s face expressed surprise at the classical references. But he said, “If you are successful in your election, Mr. Henry, I hope to work with you in the next session, and together we may move it.”

Henry grunted in amusement. “Do you see, Mr. Kenrick? Even ‘backwoodsmen’ such as myself peruse the histories and wisdom of Rome and Greece. That material is not the exclusive preserve of these Tidewater grandees.” He gestured contemptuously in the direction of the Capitol, then his brow furled in curiosity. “You are not a native of these parts, are you, Mr. Kenrick? Your manner and modulation of speech are distinctly…English.”

Hugh said simply, “I removed here from Dorset and London, but count myself a Virginian.”

“I see,” said Henry. “Well, being English is not necessarily to your discredit, nor is your youth. When we have more time, you must relate to me your experiences with censors and expulsion. I am sure it is the stuff of epics.”

Before Hugh could protest the compliment, Henry said, “But here is one more point I wish to make, and then I take my leave. I am sure that you made the same observation I did, that as the end of the session nears, attendance in the House diminishes.”

“Yes,” said Hugh. He had noted it. “But what importance do you attach to it?”

Henry cocked his head. “You would have thought that with such an important matter as a protest to the Crown in the making, the House would
have boasted full attendance. But the lazy and the thoughtless and the ignorant departed, resulting in less than half a House.” Henry smiled mischievously. “Keep that fact in mind, sir. I presume that the phenomenon is a regular one and will recur next year. It may be used to advantage. The lazy and the thoughtless and the ignorant can claim no say to the direction of events they choose to absent themselves from.”

“They are another kind of ballast,” remarked Hugh.

“Precisely,” said Henry. “You must know that at this time last year, I wrung an extenuate defeat in the Maury suit in Hanover. That has brought me some notoriety. You have scored a similarly curious defeat here today, sir. Perhaps at the next session, we can pool our defeats and attain a genuine victory.” He took Hugh’s hand and shook it again. “Good night to you, sir, good health, and thank you for your time and inspiration.” With a touch of his hat, Patrick Henry turned, shoved his hands into his pockets, and strode in the direction of the Blue Bell Tavern.

Hugh watched him disappear into the darkness. Another gust of wind blew against his back, whipping the yellow flames of the cresset behind him and sending a shower of glowing sparks to dance in the wake of the man with the Roman countenance.

The General Assembly adjourned on the 21st of December, and would meet again on the first day of May the next year.

T
he tread wheel was fixed to a wall at a man’s height, a few feet from the roaring oven-fireplace. It was a sturdy wooden and tin drum with bars in which was imprisoned the turnspit, a small mottled mongrel dog, which had little choice but to trot in the contraption. It could not stop to rest, for the sharp curve of the tread wheel did not lend itself to a dog’s comfort. If by chance it did stop and lay down to rest, however uncomfortably, the serving boy attending the fireplace would jab it with a poker to get it moving again. The dog might yelp, or whine, or bark, or perhaps even growl in torment, but it would obey. It had no choice. The tread wheel was rigged to a series of pulleys that turned the iron bar of the spit, on which were impaled joints of beef, swan, and lamb. These were turned over the flames by the dog’s exertions, assuring that all sides of the meat were evenly roasted. The tread wheel could be disengaged from the pulleys to allow removal of the cooked meat. These occasions were frequent enough when Parliament was in session and the number of hungry patrons tripled, so that the dog could enjoy a succession of brief respites from its duty.

Its home was the Purgatory Tavern, one of half a dozen such establishments in the Old Palace Yard, Westminster, to which members of Parliament, civil servants, and other functionaries repaired during recesses of the sessions. The Purgatory was also patronized by lawyers with business at the King’s Bench and the Court of Common Pleas in nearby Westminster Hall, or in the Court of Requests, a kind of small claims court that adjudicated debts of five pounds or less, just behind the tavern. The Purgatory was conveniently connected to St. Stephen’s Chapel, or the Commons, by a narrow passageway between the Court of Requests and the backs of other buildings. Up the Yard were the Caesar’s Head Tavern, the Ship Tavern, Waghorn’s Coffeehouse, and the Office of Ordnance. Adjoining the latter was what resembled a severely abbreviated Greek temple, which was the king’s own entrance to the gabled lobby of the House of Lords. Across the Yard were various shops and merchants’ offices, a constable’s house and
jail, a minor magistrate’s house and office, solicitors’ offices, and St. Margaret’s Church, not much larger than a Nonconformist Chapel. Looming over it all on one side was the long sloped roof of Westminster Hall, and on the other, the ancient mass of Westminster Abbey, more commonly known then as St. Peter’s Abbey or Collegiate Church.

A fresh February snow had fallen overnight and covered the roofs of all these edifices. It was already gray with the soot that also fell from the effluvium of London’s countless chimneys, so that it was difficult to distinguish the rooflines from the winter sky. Before noontime, though, it had warmed up a little, and the broad cobblestoned ways of the Old Palace Yard and the New Palace Yard became lakes of slush. The thick, soaking mire hardly arrested the bustle of pedestrians as they hurried behind the stanchions that defined the “sidewalks”; the cold drove them on, as did the fear, too often realized, that they would be daggled with muddy slush from passing carriages, or splashed by the synchronized pumping feet of porters bearing sedan chairs.

Dogmael Jones, member for Swansditch, sat at his regular table not far from the fireplace. His leather boots were nearly dry from having this morning twice negotiated the chilly black puddles between the Purgatory, Waghorn’s, and a disreputable tavern in one of Westminster’s anonymous back alleys, a place frequented by hackney drivers, watermen, and apprentices, and which bore the grandiose name of the King’s Table. At the latter, he had met a man named Trevors, a clerk to Thomas Whately, member for Ludgershall and George Grenville’s private secretary at the Treasury. This man served as one of Jones’s regular sources of information, for he had regular gambling debts, notwithstanding his salary and income derived from departmental fees, and so was appreciative of every little coin that came his way. Jones, generously endowed with money from his elector, Baron Garnet Kenrick, for just this kind of contingency, had exchanged five guineas for a packet of purloined correspondence, that is, letters and memoranda copied by Trevors from their originals. The furtive meeting lasted five minutes. After a quick glance at the documents, Jones had put them into his already bulging portfolio, bought the man a dram of gin, and departed. Trevors, who never ventured to audit the Commons from the gallery, for the business of the House did not interest him, did not know Jones’s name, but only suspected that his terse benefactor was an agent for some eminence in Lords.

From the King’s Table Jones picked his way to Waghorn’s, where he
met and conferred with his allies in the Commons about what to expect and what to say when the House met in a Committee of Ways and Means later that morning. These men included Colonel Isaac Barré and William Beckford, member for London and a past lord mayor of the City. The subject was the resolutions for the stamp tax bill that were to be introduced by Grenville that day. It was a brief meeting over coffee and hot toddies, held to reassure one another that they would speak against the resolutions in particular and against the bill in general when recognized by the chairman, Thomas Hunter. They did not agree on any fundamental principle for opposing the legislation; they agreed only that it must be vigorously opposed. For most of these men, passage of the bill into a Parliamentary act seemed fraught with dangers which they could associate only with a decline in trade, somehow connected with illegality. The bill was somewhat like a stiff, steady breeze that preceded a storm. A storm was certain, but of what severity and of what duration? The canvases on the creaking masts rumbled and complained from the contradictory winds, and the pennants rippled maddeningly, first east, then west, and then drooped ominously for no reason at all.

Dogmael Jones was the only man among them who denied Parliament’s authority to tax the colonies in any manner for any reason. He rejected as irrelevant all the standard arguments for and against the bill. He was as dissatisfied with his allies’ positions as his allies were unsettled by his own. It was an informal brotherhood for liberty that met at Waghorn’s that morning, whose membership brandished a small forest of argumentative levers but could not decide on the proper fulcrum with which to dislodge Grenville’s impending tax legislation. Like so many of their colonial counterparts, most of these men were sincere in their fear for British liberty at home and abroad, but were prisoners of their premises. They were vaguely aware of this weakness; Jones was acutely aware of it.

On several past occasions, before and during the new session, Jones had tried to persuade his fellows to abandon their scattered positions on the legislation and mount a broad, consistent assault based on a denial of Parliamentary authority over the colonies. And always, the retorts would be the same:

“I would never deny that authority.”

“The authority is established. This is a matter of expediency.”

“We would precipitate a constitutional crisis!”

“There would be a cessation of all legislation!”

“All the Empire would be in turmoil! Radicals and freethinkers and freetraders would clamor against all Parliamentary authority!”

“We oppose the present stamp tax being extended to the colonies, because it is of Mr. Grenville’s initiative, not of His Majesty’s.”

“Mr. Grenville’s bill
does
raise constitutional questions, it must be admitted. It would, however, be quite proper and correct if His Majesty lent his shoulder to the idea — indeed, if he had originated it himself — and then the propriety of it would be beyond constitutional question, and of no concern of ours.”

“The colonies are no more exempt from Parliamentary imposts than are Birmingham and Bristol and so many of our manufacturing towns. But whether they are represented or no in the House, these towns rely heavily on colonial materials. So many merchants are worried that a tax would contribute to a reduction in the quantity of those materials and the frequency of their import.”

“We must concede Mr. Grenville his desires, but work diligently to pare the number of items he may wish to tax and the rates he may wish to impose.”

Jones had said, on all these occasions, “Then it is a
fait accompli
, sirs. Mr. Grenville has the power of precedent as an ally, which I needn’t remind you is the precedent of power. You will neither disagree with him nor question his main point. We will lose.”

Such disparate unanimity of the opposition, of which he was a member, confirmed in Jones’s mind that defeat was inevitable. It was as though his party laid claim to a great gun that could blast the ministry’s arguments in the Commons with a single shot, but all its parts lay unassembled on the ground. As the enemy advanced with beating drums and leveled bayonets, the crew argued over the best way to put the gun together.

He was doubly discouraged now. He had waited until he reached the familiar warmth and confinement of the Purgatory Tavern and his corner table there to read the documents he obtained from Trevors. Only one of them riveted his attention. He sat for a long while, as the busy tavern reverberated with the loud talk and laughter of its patrons, staring at the words that gave Grenville his confidence and momentum:

The statement appeared in a letter dated the 24th of December of last year, and was signed by Lord Chief Justice Mansfield of the King’s Bench. In the brief missive was a reference to Grenville’s request for his opinion on Parliament’s constitutional power to tax and regulate the colonies. In Jones’s mind, this information was worth twice what he had paid Trevors for the whole lot of confidential papers. He realized, of course, that he could not use it in debate, neither as documented proof of Grenville’s determination, nor in disinterested argumentation, not without betraying Trevors and laying himself and that man open to criminal charges.

It was information, however, he was resolved to share with Garnet Kenrick and his son in Virginia. Jones returned the documents to his portfolio and tied the leather strings. Then he sipped his ale, lit a pipe, and called the serving girl over to order breakfast. He checked his watch; he had an hour and a half to compose some remarks before the Committee of Ways and Means reconvened in the House. Oblivious to the drone of voices and the clatter and clink of dishes and glass around him, he sat thinking of what he could say, and used the turning tread wheel as a focal point.

It was just after he had pushed his finished plate away and taken out a notebook and pencil to jot down some thoughts that a large bulk abruptly obstructed his view of the tread wheel. Jones glanced up and saw the wide, well-fed frame of Sir Henoch Pannell, member for Canovan, a vocal and nearly belligerent supporter of Grenville’s stamp tax scheme.

Pannell regarded him with smug jollity. “Composing more injurious eloquence, Sir Dogmael?” he asked.

Jones glowered up at him, not only because he disliked the man, but because he had interrupted a thought. “Yes,” he answered. “And, like Demosthenes, I shall spit stones.”

Pannell barked once in laughter. He and Jones had tangled this way before. He enjoyed the encounters, and knew that Jones did not. They had clashed frequently over John Wilkes and general warrants. “Bowler in the House, sirs!” exclaimed Pannell with another laugh. “You are, sir — and I admit this freely — the only decent bowler on the other team, if you catch my cricketish drift. But, as you know too well, my team boasts an abundance of superb batsmen. You’ve worried us something terrible, but not once come close to the wicket!”

Jones did not close his notebook; his pencil remained poised over a page. “Yes, sir,” he answered. “The comparison is quite plain to me. Now, if you would be so gracious as to state the purpose of this intrusion…?”

Pannell shook his head. “Purely a social one, I can assure you, sir.” He gestured to the empty chair opposite Jones. “May I?”

Jones grimaced, sighed, and put his notebook aside. “For a moment only, sir.” He was curious to hear the reason why the man had sought him out. Pannell removed his cloak and draped it over the back of the chair, which creaked when he sat in it. Jones thought he must weigh close to twenty stone. He remarked, “Surely, Sir Henoch, this place is too plebian for your society.”

Pannell shook his head. “Oh, no,” he laughed. “I am to be seen in all manner of places — gambling dens, cockpits, bagnios, the studies of great lords, and in the Commons.” He turned and bellowed an order of ale to the passing serving girl. “I heard some fellows say that you frequented this place. I came to see what were your preferred societal associations — other than that of your patron.”

Jones shrugged. “In past years, I have, at this very table, prepared numerous Crown frustrations, for delivery to the King’s Bench.”

“No doubt you believe you are preparing another, for the House.”

“Perhaps. But I believe that Mr. Grenville is preparing the Crown for an even greater agony, and you are in his chorus.” Before Pannell could reply, Jones said, “Now, sir: to your purpose.”

Pannell smiled. “I came to offer sympathy.”

“Sympathy?” scoffed Jones. “I do not know the dictionary that cites
gloating
as an associative of that sentiment. It is certainly not Dr. Johnson’s.”

Pannell frowned in mock concern. “Do I appear to gloat? I am sorry you have that impression. I must practice some sorrow. But sympathy I mean. You see, I have just come from Caesar’s Head, where I usually partake of something before the House sits, and had a few friendly words with Mr. Abercromby and Mr. Beckford. In point of fact, most of
your
party were there. Mr. Abercromby is tepid on the whole business of Mr. Grenville’s tax, while Mr. Beckford is, well, confused. Also, I overheard some talk between Colonel Barré and Sir George Savile there, on the same matter. I do not think they will pursue the constitutional question, for there is a rumor that Mr. Grenville has secured the assurances of an important person that there is no question at all. And I saw Mr. John Sargent of West
Looe and Mr. Richard Jackson of Weymouth — I know that you and your patron have been consorting with those gentlemen — speaking over a breakfast with that fellow from Pennsylvania, Mr. Franklin, who is a Quaker, to tell from his simple but refined garments, and nearly as large as me. They looked earnest, but not very confident.”