Empire

by Edward Cline

  Many members of the House clucked their tongues in disapproval of this last remark, while others chuckled or snickered. Grenville murmured to himself, “Oh! You great billowy hulk, no more of that, if you please! You have done me a service, and I beg of you — end it there!”

  Dogmael Jones also muttered to himself. “You, sir, have wrung from me an ounce of pity for Mr. Grenville, for having you as an ally.”

  “Well, sirs,” continued Pannell, “that is the gist of my thoughts. Mr. Townshend there made relevant reference to the ingratitude of distempered children and the grief they bring to their parents. Our colonial children are wayward and profligate, and it is time that they were bled so that they may be cured of their outlandish distemper. The honorable minister’s tax can but only cure them of it, and then this kingdom and its colonies will again be a happy family.” With a nod to Chairman Hunter, the member for Canovan took his seat again.

  A sigh of relief on the benches was partly camouflaged by a general murmur of agreement and the restlessness of men who had sat immobile for too long. Crispin Hillier, member for Onyxcombe, was seated next to Pannell. He remarked, “Fine ranting, Sir Henoch, and I am sure that Mr. Grenville is appreciative. But did you need to verge on Billingsgate humor?”

  Pannell assumed a look of hurt dignity. “Not all the gentlemen here have heads suited for high-mindedness, Hillier,” he replied. “They require something familiar to assist them in their occasional ruminations.”

  After a short recess, several more speeches for and against the resolutions were made that day and into the evening. At eight o’clock, Chairman Hunter conducted a vote on William Beckford’s motion to postpone a vote; it was rejected by an overwhelming majority. The fifty-one resolutions, carefully drafted by Thomas Whately, were then each read, voted on, and passed, the last one at ten o’clock.

  “Three books, from beginning to end, in your entire life, Sir Henoch?” remarked Dogmael Jones to the member for Canovan as that man passed him in the lobby of the House on his way out.

  Pannell was in the company of Mr. Kemp, member for Harbin and a constant card game partner, and Crispin Hillier. They looked as tired and drained as most of the other members who were hurrying out into the night. Pannell paused to face Jones, trying to remember the cause of his question. Jones added, “I cannot imagine why you should want to mislead me on the subject of your reading habits.”

  “I did not mislead you, sir,” replied Pannell with a broad grin. “I have not read more than three books from beginning to end in my entire life. That’s a fact. I merely neglected to mention that I have peeked into many dozens.”

  “There is much that you neglect to mention.”

  Pannell shrugged with a chuckle. “Well, that is the art of oratory, is it not? You bandy truths before the House, and I bandy neglect and omission. And tonight we saw whose style of oratory is preferred and effective. Goodnight, sir.”

  Chapter 13: The Stamp Act

  Early in the following evening, Sir Dogmael Jones presented himself at the door of the residence of Charles Lennox, third Duke of Richmond, and asked to see Baron Garnet Kenrick. The Duke’s spacious, terraced house overlooked the Thames, not far from Westminster Hall and the House of Commons. The Baron, his wife, and daughter were guests of the Duke’s while Parliament was in session. The Kenricks no longer stayed at Windridge Court, a close neighbor of the Duke’s residence, for the Baron’s brother, the Earl of Danvers, was in residence for the same reason. As Jones threaded his way through a multitude of carriages parked outside and inside the Duke’s courtyard, he remembered that his sponsor had mentioned something about a concert being held here this evening. The Baron had come alone to the Commons, but departed before the day was half finished.

  Jones was conducted by a servant to the antechamber of a larger room, from which came the sounds of a clavichord. He wrote a note on a slip of paper, and handed it and a copper coin to the servant. The servant went inside the larger room, and closed the door behind him. While he waited, Jones paced back and forth in the richly appointed room almost in time with the music being played. Its soaring, urgent quality seemed to match his mood. Jones did not like the clavichord, but was struck by the melody. He thought it would be glorious if performed by an orchestra.

  Minutes later the door was opened by the servant and Garnet Kenrick came in. The servant closed the door on them. The Baron looked expectantly at Jones.

  Jones said, “It is done, milord.”

  The Baron sat down in an armchair. “I see.”

  Jones remained standing. He was too wrought up to sit. “Mr. Whately reported the resolutions to the House, and the committee have appointed nine persons to draw up a bill. All the Lords of the Treasury, the Secretaries, and the Attorney-General and Solicitor-General — all friendly to the tax. It will receive its first reading in a full House a week from now.”

  “Well,” sighed Garnet Kenrick. “It is done, then.”

  “Some of the colonial agents plan to compose petitions opposing the bill — Fuller for Jamaica, Montague for Virginia, Jackson for Connecticut, Garth for South Carolina — but they seem to be at a loss over how to compose a protest without offending the House.” Jones scoffed. “It cannot be done. In any event, I am sure that Mr. Grenville will dismiss any attempt to introduce petitions into the proceedings. He has that privilege. It is a House rule.”

  The Baron grimaced. “Rules! Even Admiral Byng was undone by rules! And even he was allowed to speak his own eulogy before he was executed! But the colonies may not!”

  “I managed to speak with Mr. Franklin today. He is also resigned to passage, and says that he intends to order stamps for his firm in Philadelphia, and recommend to Mr. Grenville a friend there for the post of distributor.”

  “I did not expect that of him.”

  “Nor I, milord. But, resignation can, at times, compel a man to do strange, desperate things. He believes that the Americans will grow accustomed to the tax.”

  Garnet Kenrick studied the barrister for a moment. He said, “My son is an American now, as you well know. He will not grow accustomed to it.” He paused. “I spoke with his grace earlier this evening, before the concert, and on this very point.”

  “The Duke?”

  “Yes. He ventured the opinion that if the Americans submit to this kind of blacklegging, there would be no end to what they will tolerate in future, which would simply provoke more abuse. He hopes they will do something. He also opined that if there is any chance for a change in conditions and practices here, it must first be exampled by the Americans.”

  Jones smiled. “I cannot disagree with that opinion, milord.”

  “Nor can I,” chuckled the Baron. “His grace is more radical, or liberal, than you or my son. I own that I cannot disagree with much of what he says.”

  “I must some time make his acquaintance,” mused Jones. The music now was reaching a crescendo. “What is that being played, milord?”

  “That? A toccata fugue by the late Mr. Bach. One of his sons is here this evening, and requested that it be performed by the little genius.”

  “The little genius?”

  “That Austrian prodigy, Mr. Jones. Wolfgang Mozart. Only nine years old, yet he performs as though he has played for ninety. Do you know that he can play with a blindfold, and with a keyboard draped, virtually any composition handed him, after only a glance at the notes, and improvise on it? His older sister, Marianna, is here, also, and they sat together and gave us some variations on Mr. Handel. The whole family is here, on tour. They may even come up to Chelsea, close to us, for the father’s health, until they return to the Continent.”

  Jones sighed. “I think I envy the little genius and his family, milord,” he remarked. “They must be serenely oblivious to what concerns us.”

  “I am sure they are,” said the Baron. “To hear the Duke tell it, music is the only world they know.” The Baron studied his friend again with sympathy. “You probably have not been told this, not even by y
our colleagues in the House, but I appreciated your speech today, in which you compared the stamp tax to the practice of ransom by the Barbary pirates. In the colonies, one’s legal existence and protection may, by this tax, be held hostage by the Crown unless one pays the ransom of submission to it. You called it an insidious, Faustian scheme to purchase one’s soul. Very eloquent, sir, and very effective!”

  Jones lay his hat, cane, and portfolio on a table, and took an armchair near the Baron. “Thank you, milord. Eloquent? Perhaps. That is for you to judge. Effective? I think not. At times I feel like a musician playing one of those clavichords in the next room for the mob at Tyburn Tree. The crowd is so fat-witted and noisy that I cannot be heard.” He shook his head. “Eloquence has not worked here, milord, except to more tightly seal the minds that do not wish to hear the subject of that eloquence. Some form of action may be necessary. Perhaps a simple refusal to pay the tax.”

  The Baron hummed in doubt. “That, my friend, may invite a call for the bayonet,” he remarked. Then he glanced around, and asked in a hushed voice, “Sir Dogmael, are we not discussing treason here?”

  Jones nodded, unconcerned. “By law, yes. By our principles, no. It is Mr. Grenville and his party who intend treason, under the guise of patriotism and national interest. However, if I made that bare charge in the House, I should be escorted out of the House by the serjeant-at-arms and suffer the fate of Mr. Wilkes.” He paused. “I did not tell you this earlier, but an envoy from the Lord High Steward approached me in the Purgatory Tavern this morning, and communicated to me an offer of a place on the Board of the Green Cloth, provided I withdraw my remarks about Mr. Grenville and the bill, cross the floor, and join his party — or, at least, remain silent. I nearly slapped the fellow for his brazenness, but instead shook my cane at him and routed him from the place.”

  “Well,” said Garnet Kenrick with an ironic smile, “you might have agreed to the offer and profited from it. It would have given you a chance to prepare cases against peers being investigated for capital indiscretions.”

  Jones shook his head. “It is a number of commoners who deserve that attention, milord. Those men have shut the door to persuasion. They are a whole gang of Mr. Hogarth’s idle apprentices, dissolute, arrogant, insensible to reason and practicality —” Abruptly, Jones’s expression changed.

  The Baron noticed it. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I have an idea,” said Jones. He rose and began pacing again. “It will not stop passage of the bill, but it will capture the proposed act in all its salient aspects.”

  “What?”

  “A caricature, milord.”

  The Baron made a disgusted face. “Must we stoop to that?”

  Jones shrugged. “It is the last weapon handy, milord. Perhaps it will help men to understand why they should protest, petition, and speak against the bill. Now, Mr. Franklin knows many printers and engravers here, and could recommend someone discreet to do it. It could appear in the London Weekly Journal, a magazine friendly to our cause, or, at least, to British liberty. It could be sent to the colonies for edification there.”

  “What is the caricature?”

  Jones, his face now animated with hope and mischief, stopped to describe his idea.

  Garnet Kenrick burst out laughing and clapped his hands once. “You may rely on me, Mr. Jones,” he said, “to defray the expenses of this venture!” He laughed again. “Mr. Grenville and Sir Henoch have earned the ribaldry. I cannot wait to tell Effney about this!” He paused when they heard the sound of applause come from the concert room. The Baron rose and put a hand on Jones’s shoulder. “Well, enough of that kind of genius for the day! Join me in the concert here and listen to another kind! I will introduce you to the Duke and Duchess. Effney and Alice will be delighted to see you again.” Then he asked, “But when should this devilment appear?”

  Jones looked thoughtful. “Provided it can be done to our satisfaction, soon after the House has passed the bill, but before it goes to Lords. It is a money act, you know, and naturally will carry a noli me tangere, which the lords will not contest, of course.”

  Garnet Kenrick frowned. “Of course not. And no doubt my brother there will think it too lenient.”

  * * *

  George Grenville laid the bill before the House on February 13 for its first formal reading. On the 15th, the opposition rose again to protest it on technical points. One member asked to present a petition from Jamaica, which lamely declared that the subjects of that colony would be unable to pay the stamp tax. As Jones and other members expected him to, Grenville cited the House rule against receiving petitions against proposed taxes. He also corrected Sir William Meredith and said flatly that the bill had been postponed from the last session “to give time for information, not for opposition” from the colonies, as the member for Liverpool had claimed. Other petitions from North America were introduced and similarly rebuffed.

  Jones attended every sitting, and spoke when he was recognized, which was fewer and fewer times. He watched with disgust as Grenville and his party slyly led the opposition down the futile path of squabbling over particulars of the bill, thus belaying any further argument over general principles. The pro-bill party won every argument, he knew, because it was consistent and loyal to its own set of principles; it won because the opposition conceded Parliament’s sovereignty over and right to tax the colonies. He gave a short speech that criticized the opposition’s stance and tactics, calling his colleagues “unprincipled,” without meaning to asperse their characters. But many in the opposition were offended by the remark, and refused to consult with him. His attempts to explain his remarks were met with cold silence.

  He was ostracized by government and opposition alike, even in the Speaker’s Room, where members often retired to talk strategy, to absent themselves from a vote, or simply to rest from the business of the House. Once, Henoch Pannell found him standing alone in the crowded room, and said with loud bluster, “Well, Sir Dogmael, I suppose you regret having left the cloisters of the Inns of Court for politics. Quite a brutal field of conflict, in there on the floor, littered as it is with the casualties of so many worthy causes.”

  “I have not left the Inns of Court, sir. I am a Templar for liberty, while you are a Tartuffe for tyranny.” He saw that Pannell knew he should be offended by the remark, but did not know how much. He added with an icy smile, “That is a reference to deception and hypocrisy, sir. Pray, peek you into a book of French plays.”

  Pannell snorted at the slight. “More table talk rules, sir? Well, I shall investigate the reference,” he replied. “But pray you remember that His Majesty frowns upon dueling!”

  “Then you would do well to save us both from his displeasure, and not address me again with such dullness.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Pannell turned and walked away to join his friends.

  As the member for Canovan had predicted in his past speech, the Stamp Bill was altered in some respects from its original form. The opposition fought for, and was satisfied with winning, the few concessionary crumbs tossed in their direction. These, however, concerned government documents: bounty warrants, proclamations, and Indian land purchase instruments, which were exempted from having to bear the stamps. Grenville also generously agreed to allow Halifax, Nova Scotia, be replaced in the bill by Charleston, Philadelphia, and Boston as sites for the new jury-less vice-admiralty courts.

  On February 27, the amended bill received its third and final reading before the House. Members of the pro-bill party and the opposition traded some last-minute exchanges over the vice-admiralty courts and Grenville’s “undue haste” in introducing and piloting the bill through the House. Thomas Townshend rose to attack, not the bill, but a recent pamphlet, published by Soame Jenyns, member for Cambridge borough and a member of the Board of Trade. Townshend complained that the pamphlet, titled The Objections to Taxation of Our American Colonies Considered, treated the Americans with “levity and insult.”

  Jones quickly
rose after him and was recognized. “Some years ago,” he said, “this Mr. Jenyns published a book on the nature and origin of evil. I wonder, though, if he knows the bottom of his special subject, for he has not risen once to question the moral foundation of this bill.” Jones heard gasps and groans in the House, but went on. “He may claim, together with the honorable minister and his party, that the revenue raised by this tax will remain in the colonies. I say that the distinction is fribblous and without merit. Peter and Paul are, in those colonies, inopportuned host and unwelcome guest respectively, but Peter must be robbed to pay Paul, who is there to ensure that Peter pays. I should like to know the gentleman’s thoughts on that peculiar ethic.”

  Soame Jenyns pursed his lips to stop himself from stammering, but did not rise to reply.

  Grenville did. He ignored Jones and replied to Thomas Townshend, chastising him for having failed to mention the many published libels and insinuations on the government. After a last reassertion of Parliament’s right to tax the colonies, the first minister resumed his seat.

  A moment passed, and no one else rose to be recognized by the Chair. The debate was over. Speaker John Cust knew that the House was in near unanimity on the bill; he now had the discretion to forgo a vote and declare the bill passed.

  He noticed the first minister and his secretary watching him expectantly. Those men, he knew, held a low opinion of him as a Speaker. Likewise, his younger brother, Peregrine Cust, member for Bishop’s Castle and a prosperous government linen contractor, often chided him for not maintaining as strong a rein on the House as had his predecessor, Arthur Onslow. He sensed his brother’s contemptuous eyes on him from above the Treasury bench. Cust did not blame any of these men for the low esteem in which they held him.

  He was guilty, on many occasions, of having let order in the House lapse into “all the riot and tumult of a Southwark greyhound race, or a cockfight in the bowels of London” (as he had overheard Horace Walpole describe one such occasion). He knew, also, that the first minister wished him to exercise his discretion on the bill so that it would seem a complete victory. But the Speaker felt a little spurt of defiance well up within him, and he resolved, for order’s sake, to be fair.