by Edward Cline
He stopped pacing and turned to address Wythe, whose dour expression seemed to reflect similar remorseful thoughts. “It seems that murdered Cherokees and the Augusta Boys and other pressing business have addled the good sense of our friend down the way,” he said.
“We cannot now advise him to rescind the suspension, Mr. Randolph,” replied Wythe.
“No, that would be testing his patience.” Randolph paused. “We have both observed him when he is possessed by anger. To question his action would seem like challenging his lawful prerogative, even though that is not what we would do.” He chuckled once in ironic amusement. “And, of course, he must have guessed who sent Mr. Cullis.”
“Do you think the citizenry will be possessed by anger?” asked Wythe. “Now no one will have the means to advertise wares, or property, or runaways, or any of the mundane business we are accustomed to. Many legitimate announcements must now remain…unannounced. It is, as you say, unprecedented.”
“I cannot imagine how the citizenry will swallow it,” said Randolph. “It seems that while we have persuaded him to thwart intemperate actions and words, we have also invited him to fix a pair of blinders over our eyes.”
Wythe nodded. “It smacks of Romish politics,” he remarked. “People may think he is practicing the powers of the Pope. Or the Prussian king. ‘Look straight ahead to your business, and never mind what other unpatriotic fools do or say.’” Wythe’s face seemed then to explode in horrified realization. “Why, his action will lend credence to Mr. Henry’s most incongruous and absurd fears!”
The two veterans of Virginia politics looked at each other in surprise at their tacit agreement with a man and an idea with which they did not wish to agree. The logic of events, however, was compelling them to. They did not like it.
* * *
Chapter 4: The Duel
Israel Beck, manservant and assistant bookkeeper at Morland Hall, late one morning in early August drove a sulky into Caxton to purchase some new ledger books, writing paper, and a pattern book for Ruth Dakin. He stopped when he saw a small crowd of townspeople gathered around a wagon outside of Wendel Barret’s shop, his first destination. He saw two men in fine clothes mounted on horses, and several liveried Negroes carrying out the wide wooden type cases of Barret’s press and loading them onto the wagon bed.
Just then Travis Barret, the printer’s twelve-year-old grandson, flew from the crowd and ran toward Beck. Beck signaled to him with his crop. When the boy stopped at the sulky, he asked, “What goes on here, young Barret?”
“The Council’s shutting us down, sir! Orders from the Governor! Grandpa’s all a fury! Got to tell Mr. Kenrick!”
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Beck. “Well, go ahead, and be sure to alert Mr. Frake, too!”
“Yes, sir!” Travis Barret sped off again in the direction of Meum Hall as though the devil were chasing him.
At Meum hall, Hugh Kenrick was in his study, taking a respite from the heat, reading a volume of Tacitus, when a breathless Travis Barret was shown in by Spears. When the boy told him the news, he sent the valet to Morland to inform Jack Frake.
“Who are these men?” Hugh asked the boy.
“Never saw ’em before, sir! I think the one’s name is Waldo, or something like that, and the other is John Chiswell. Mean lookin’ cuss, he is! He shoved Grandpa aside and threatened him with his boot!”
Hugh paused long enough to wonder if he should wear his sword. He wore it occasionally as a mere formality, when he thought of it. He decided to err on the side of caution. Chiswell, who was not reelected to represent Williamsburg because of the incident in the town in May, might cause trouble again. He snapped on his tricorn, and strapped on his sword, but in his hurry and outrage left his frock coat behind.
He rode into town with the boy riding double behind him. The entourage was just about to leave the front of Barret’s shop. The boy slid to the ground and ran to join his grandfather in the watching crowd.
Hugh recognized both of the mounted men: the monkish face of Nathaniel Walthoe, Clerk of the Council, and the pinched, sour face of John Chiswell, former burgess for Williamsburg and father-in-law of Speaker John Robinson. Their presence here was odd. The liveried servants he recognized as staff from the Capitol. He glanced at the crowd and saw Wendel Barret glaring at the horsemen. Sheriff Cabal Tippet and under-sheriff George Roane, standing with Mayor Moses Corbin, were also in the crowd, looking helpless and resigned.
Hugh rode directly in the path of Walthoe and stopped. He pointed to the wagon. “What means this, sir?” he demanded.
Walthoe frowned, halted, and held up a hand. His entourage stopped. “Mr. Kenrick,” he said pleasantly, “good day to you.”
Hugh again pointed at the wagon. “I recognize Mr. Barret’s livelihood there, sir. What means this?”
Nathaniel Walthoe was reluctant to reply to such a question, but felt he must. He had heard this man speak in the Assembly, and also felt obliged because the man hailed from nobility. An answer was required of him. He said, “Mr. Barret was found to be in violation of the terms of his license, in addition to having violated the sanctity of the House by printing the resolves of the late Assembly.”
Hugh grimaced. “In what capacity do you act, sir?”
“There being no appointed deputy King’s Attorney for this county — the worthy Mr. Reisdale having declined that office a number of times — I have been temporarily deputized to that office by Mr. Randolph, the Attorney-General, with the approval of the Council and his honor the Governor.”
“I see.” Hugh glanced at John Chiswell, who sat in his saddle regarding him with an ominously seething patience.
Walthoe only now remembered what had happened last May in Williamsburg, when Chiswell attacked this man with his cane on Duke of Gloucester Street, and had even attempted an assault in the House chamber. The man was already in a funk over having lost reelection as burgess for Williamsburg. He realized that perhaps Chiswell was the wrong man to have brought here. He said, “Mr. Chiswell is my own deputized bailiff, sir, the House bailiff being indisposed with a stomach ailment and there being no other man of authority available.”
“An authority by virtue of marriage,” remarked Hugh with contempt. He nodded to the wagon again and the three liveried servants who sat on the riding board. “You are employing Capitol hands to effect a wrong that doubtless Mr. Randolph was loath to commit himself.”
Walthoe frowned. “Think what you wish of it, sir, but I have the Council’s leave to employ them. Now, Mr. Kenrick, if you would kindly allow us to pass.…?”
Hugh may as well not have heard the request. “What proof have you that Mr. Barret printed the resolves?” he insisted.
Walthoe sighed. “The proof was provided by a patriotic subject of this very county, sir, and has been authenticated by an authority whose veracity can hardly be questioned, Mr. Royle of the Gazette.” Walthoe paused. “Mr. Barret’s property will be returned to him at the leave of his honor the Governor. He will be officially charged in the General Court in November, but no further action will be taken against him, providing he does not repeat the offense. His honor judged that removal of the means of repeating that offense will secure that particular end. In the meantime, Mr. Barret is permitted his liberty. He may continue to receive mail and conduct such business as he may.”
“How generous of his honor. Have you a warrant for Mr. Barret’s arrest?”
“No, sir. It was the prerogative of his honor to order one drawn up, but his honor has decided it would serve no purpose. A writ for the seizure of the press was deemed sufficient penalty.”
“And Mr. Barret was found guilty by the Council?”
“The Council presented its evidence, sir, and it was his honor’s decision to take this action. All the legal niceties were observed.”
“I am sure they were,” replied Hugh. He put on a challenging grin. “I paid for the printing of those resolves, Mr. Walthoe,” he said. “Perhaps his honor might wish to serve me wi
th a legal nicety, as well. I, too, violated a House rule by effecting the promulgation of the resolves.”
Walthoe looked genuinely surprised, but said, “It was assumed that someone paid to have the offence committed, sir, but that is not the matter at hand.”
“And when will his honor see his way to returning Mr. Barret’s property?”
“When he sees fit,” replied Walthoe.
“When he permits the Gazette to resume publication, perhaps?” asked Hugh in mock speculation. “We here in Caxton did not place much importance on the Gazette’s suspension, given that it is so much influenced by his honor the Governor. We had the Courier. And now we are to be denied it, as well.”
Walthoe fiddled with his reins and sat straight in his saddle. “That is not my affair, sir. Now, we wish to return to Williamsburg before dusk, if you please, and must be on our way.”
Hugh said, “I shall speak with the Governor myself, sir, and you and Mr. Chiswell may find yourselves sued for damages.”
“No, you will not speak to anyone — regicide!!” bellowed John Chiswell, who drew his sword in time with his words.
Walthoe’s jaw dropped and he glanced in panic at his deputy bailiff. But Hugh, having sensed Chiswell’s intent, had already reined his mount around and galloped a few strides away from the men, but heard Walthoe demand that Chiswell sheathe his sword and turn about.
Without stopping, Hugh tugged on one rein and brought his mount around smartly as he drew out his own sword. Chiswell hurtled directly at him, cursing wildly, digging his heels repeatedly into the flanks of his horse.
Hugh urged his mount into a gallop.
Chiswell’s sword was raised to strike at Hugh’s head. As it came down, Hugh deftly parried it with a clang of steel as he sped past the ex-burgess.
Hugh quickly reined about and charged again. Chiswell had barely enough time to urge his horse to recover and move to meet Hugh. With a flick of his blade, Hugh connected with the guard of Chiswell’s raised weapon, wrested it from the man’s grip, and sent it wheeling through the air over Chiswell’s head. In the same deft, liquid movement, he whipped the flat of the blade down and struck the rump of his opponent’s passing horse.
Chiswell’s horse screamed in surprise, bucked once in mid-stride, causing the man to lose hold of his reins, then bolted off, throwing its unbalanced rider to the ground with a thud and a cloud of dust.
Cheers, laughter, and applause burst from the watching crowd. It was the first time anyone in it had ever seen such combat.
Hugh turned and walked his mount up to the toppled ex-burgess, his sword blade resting lightly on a shoulder. He looked contemptuously down at the sputtering, shocked older man. “Shall we continue this, sir?” he asked.
“You may go to hell!” replied the wild-eyed Chiswell, now hatless, his wig askew, and his scabbard bent in half. He looked very foolish, and knew it. He searched for his hat, and found that he was sitting on it.
Nathaniel Walthoe, scandalized and angry, trotted up to the pair. He offered his bailiff a hand to help him up, but the man slapped it away with his crumpled hat. Walthoe then commanded, “Sir, please recover your horse and sword! You have besmirched the lawfulness of our purpose here!”
“You can go to hell, as well, sir!” spat Chiswell.
Sheriff Tippet and George Roane quickly strode up to the group. Tippet addressed Hugh. “Sir, do you wish to charge this gentleman with assault? Witnesses to his action there are aplenty!”
Hugh narrowed his eyes and smiled. “Yes, this time, and I — ”
Walthoe interjected hastily, “You cannot charge Mr. Chiswell with any offense, sirs! He is on Crown business! But, I will vouch for the wrongness of his action, and promise that he will be reprimanded.” He paused, then added, reluctantly, “I, too, was a witness.”
“This regicide was obstructing our way!” shouted Chiswell, picking himself up from the ground and waving his hat at Hugh. “It was my duty as bailiff to move him out of it!”
“That is not what we saw — ” began Tippet.
“Never mind what you saw! It’s what I saw that counts!” He turned and looked up at Walthoe. “You, sir, must vouch for me that this…creature was obstructing our way! He was obstructing officers of the law in the performance of their duty!”
“No, sir,” answered Hugh. “I was questioning the propriety of tyranny.”
Chiswell cursed again and shook a fist at Hugh.
Walthoe laid his riding crop on the man’s shoulder and spoke with angry impatience. “Mr. Chiswell, I am a moment away from remanding you to the mercies of this county’s justice! You have already forfeited your fee for this service! Kindly reclaim your horse and accompany me back to Williamsburg!”
Chiswell looked up at the deputy King’s Attorney and saw that Walthoe meant it. He straightened his wig, put on his hat, and retrieved first his sword, then his horse, which had stopped to water itself at a trough outside the King’s Arms Tavern a way down the street. He mounted it and trotted past Walthoe and the waiting wagon in the direction of the Hove Stream bridge and the road back to Williamsburg.
Walthoe motioned the wagon to follow him and rode on.
Tippet chuckled and remarked to him as he passed, “Next time, Mr. Walthoe, choose an abler bailiff!”
The deputy King’s Attorney said nothing and passed by.
Hugh turned his mount around to watch the party leave. He saw Jack Frake and John Proudlocks, also mounted, staring at him from across the street. Jack Frake then saluted him with his tricorn, as did Proudlocks. Hugh smiled, returned the salute, and without flourish sheathed his sword.
Sheriff Tippet shook his head and said to Hugh, “Pardon me for saying this, Mr. Kenrick, but you had no authority to interrogate Mr. Walthoe. I already asked him some of those questions.”
“Yes, I had, Mr. Tippet,” replied Hugh. “This gave me the authority.” He tapped his forehead with a finger.
“Well,” conceded Tippet, “I could not stand in the way of the Crown.”
Hugh dismounted, hitched his horse to the post outside of Barret’s shop, and entered the place. He found Wendel Barret railing in a fit of boiling rage at Jack Frake, Proudlocks, and the other men who crowded into the shop. The printer’s face was red, his eyes flashed, and his hands shook uncontrollably. “They have robbed me of my joy!” he proclaimed. “I am nothing without my press!” He patted one side of the press. “Now my machine of knowledge is…gutless! They have left me a brain without words!” Travis Barret stood in a corner of the cramped room with Cletus, the apprentice slave.
Jack Frake asked with genuine perplexity, “Why did they not take the press?”
“They could not have stolen it without breaking it up, Mr. Frake! Assembled, it will not fit through the door! Besides, his honor the Governor could not be accused of censoring the press when he has left it intact! But, the thing is useless without words, sir, and those are now gone!”
Lucas Rittles, Barret’s neighboring grocer, volunteered to Jack Frake, “Mr. Walthoe’s warrant stated that he had the authority to remove all the type cases, even the ones used for printing account book pages and such.”
Jack Frake scoffed. “But, he can be accused of censorship,” he said. “He has suspended the Gazette, as well.”
“Bosh!” exclaimed Barret. “I’ll wager that Mr. Royle is well compensated for his inconvenience, and that he still has his type cases! He won’t mind the suspension! Saves him the bother of courage to say what’s on his mind!” Barret waved a hand around the shop. “Half my revenue came from the county’s advertisements. Royle is on the same budget!”
Reverend Albert Acland, who had joined the crowd in the shop, said, “I don’t see the injustice, sir. You were granted a license to operate a press. There were conditions. You violated them. Your license has been suspended, that is all.”
Barret glared at his pastor. “I should not require a license to operate a press, sir, no more than you should require a license to shovel food
into your hasty maw!”
Jack Frake turned to the minister and remarked, “Or to offer an unsolicited opinion.”
Acland, offended, turned and left the shop.
Jack turned to Hugh. “This must be protested. I will ride to Williamsburg tomorrow and demand to see the Governor.”
“My thought, too. We will go together.”
Jack Frake and Hugh Kenrick approached Barret. “Sir,” said Jack, “Hugh and I will ride to Williamsburg tomorrow and accost the Governor for an explanation of this outrage. Will you come with us?”
“Yes,” replied the printer without hesitation, “if you trust me enough not to call him out for pistols at twenty feet!”
“We trust you. I’ll lend you my sulky,” said Hugh. Then he asked, “Where are the rest of the broadsides?”
“They took those, too!” roared Barret, but he paused to chuckle. “But, I have a bundle of them stashed under my bed next door. Not many, but some.” He glanced at his two apprentices. “You there, son!” he said to Travis. “You be sure when I die, one of those is buried with me!”
Travis Barret nodded solemnly.
“And you, Cletus,” said the printer to the black boy, “you be sure to remind him!”
“Yes, sir,” answered the boy.
Jack looked around and saw Israel Beck in the back of the crowd. “Well, Mr. Beck here has some purchases to make. We’ll talk later in the day, Mr. Barret.”
Outside, Jack, Hugh, and Proudlocks rode down to the King’s Arms and went inside. When they were seated at a table, Jack asked, “Who do you think told the Governor?”
“Mr. Cullis,” answered Hugh immediately. “He was the only one of our party last May who doubted the wisdom of printing Mr. Henry’s resolves. And he opposed the last resolves, and refused to vote again for any of the ones that had already passed.” He paused. “And I believe he helped persuade some of the others to change their votes, as well.”
“Do you think he has been bought?”
“No,” answered Hugh. “I believe he is afraid.”