by Edward Cline
“What is an ecclesiastical court?” asked one of the smaller planters.
“What would replace our vestrymen,” answered Reisdale, “in all matters of faith, good will, and charity.”
The debate went on for another few hours, broken at one point by refreshments. Edgar Cullis took the opportunity to stand with Hugh, Jack, and Proudlocks on the spacious, colonnaded porch outside. “I have read the act,” he said, “and am aroused by it as much as you, sir. But, what is to be done?”
“Speak against it,” said Hugh. “In the House.”
Cullis shook his head. “How can that be done?”
“Forcefully.” Hugh paused, and added, “Remember what I said about bees and bullies.”
“I remember it well. But speaking against this act will only create enemies in the House. The men who composed our protests last December will think those enough, and will want to wait for replies from London.”
Jack remarked, “Our enemies are across the ocean, Mr. Cullis.”
The burgess turned sharply to face Jack, and stabbed the air with his finger. “Now, there! That is the kind of speech that could put us all in trouble, Mr. Frake, with the House and with the Crown! Reckless and irresponsible speech!”
“So be it,” said Jack calmly.
Hugh said, “Do not count on replies to our protests from London, Mr. Cullis. Our remonstrance to the Commons was not admitted into debate — nor was any other colonial petition, and there were three or four — the memorial to Lords is very likely gathering dust in some velvet-lined drawer, and our address to the king was probably never read by him or to him, some eminences on the Privy Council doubtless judging that it was not worthy of his attention.”
“Perhaps not,” said Cullis. “And if what you say is true, then it may be taken as a measure of the futility of further protests!”
“The king will put his mark on the law,” interjected Proudlocks, “as King-in-Parliament. He will protect himself before he thinks of protecting his colonies or subjects from Parliament. His purse, too, is in the hands of other men.”
Cullis looked at Proudlocks with incredulity and disdain. “That is a villainous thing to say about His Majesty!” he exclaimed. He might have said more, and more offensive things, but he knew that the man was Jack’s friend, and forced himself to dismiss the subject. “See here, Mr. Kenrick,” he said, turning back to Hugh. “Just as Mr. Vishonn cannot imagine Lords obstructing the Commons, I cannot imagine our House, even together with the Council, obstructing the will of Parliament.” He spread his hands in helplessness. “The Randolphs, Bland, Wythe, Robinson, all the others — they are a power in the House, sir, and loyal to the Crown, whatever its shortcomings and whatever their misgivings about it.” He paused. “They would sooner see you hanged, or sent to England in irons for uttering malicious statements — you heard Mr. Reisdale comment on that — than risk crossing blades with Parliament. They know we would lose, forfeit the good will and beneficence of the Crown, and incur punitive actions!”
Jack laughed out loud with bitterness and contempt. “Has that not already happened, Mr. Cullis?”
Cullis and Hugh both stared with astonishment at him: Hugh, because he had never before heard his friend laugh that way before; Cullis, because he had never before seen Jack so much as smile, and the laugh that had answered him made him now both fearful and somehow ashamed. Proudlocks, who stood beyond Jack, was also studying his employer with amused curiosity.
Cullis faced Hugh again. “I am not urging you to remain silent, Mr. Kenrick. Egads! Something must be said against this act. I might even speak, should the matter arise. What I am urging is that, well, you speak in a more…moderate manner, in a less hostile manner.” He shook his head in exasperation as he searched for better words. “Chuck them under the chin, if you will, rather than smack them with a boxer’s blow.”
Hugh laughed. “A wet match never lit a fire, Mr. Cullis. And you worry over-much. When the time comes, I shall merely recite the facts behind and ahead of the act.”
Cullis looked uncertain about this reassurance. “Very well, then.” He started to turn to go back inside, but stopped. “I have wanted to ask you: Why did you go to Hanover?”
“To deliver a copy of the act to Mr. Henry.”
“Oh…But he is not in the House.”
“He will be, before session’s end,” said Hugh.
“And…he plans to speak against the act?”
Hugh smiled. “With thunderbolts, Mr. Cullis.”
Cullis scoffed. “Well, then let it be on his own head. I have heard him speak before the committee. There will be consequences.” The burgess let curiosity get the best of him. “What will he say?”
“What needs to be said,” replied Hugh. “In what words or form, I cannot predict.” He paused. “When he arrives, you shall meet him again. I am asking you now to support us.”
Cullis merely nodded with reluctance, turned, and strode back inside the mansion.
Chapter 4: The Virginians
Reece Vishonn ended the meeting an hour later, and gave a speech to his guests. “Now that we know something about this Stamp Act, and how each of us feels about it and stands to be hurt by it, I recommend that we wait to see what transpires in this session of the Assembly. By session’s end, we should know whether or not this act has indeed become law. Then we may know what to say, or do, depending, of course, on what action the House chooses to take.”
Most of the men who came to Enderly alarmed or curious, left late that afternoon subdued, resigned, and despondent. Vishonn shook the hand of each one at the front door, and saw in each man’s eyes and bearing both anger and a sense of doom. This was not what he had hoped to achieve by the meeting. He himself was not certain what he sought by gathering these men together, except, perhaps, commiseration. His and their minds seemed to stop at a certain point, unable to imagine what else could be done.
“If the House does nothing,” said Henry Otway near the end of the meeting, “then we can do nothing but obey the law as best we can.”
There had been no change in Jack Frake’s mien. Vishonn said to him as he went out, “Thank you for suggesting that we air our concerns, Mr. Frake. And,” he added with humor, “take care riding home. Reverend Acland may be waiting for you in ambush!”
“In that unlikely event,” replied Jack with a serious smile, “you and your fellow vestrymen may need to begin searching for a new pastor.”
To Hugh Kenrick and Edgar Cullis, Vishonn said, “I would like to be present when this matter comes before the House, sirs. When do you think that might be?”
Cullis sighed. “If at all, toward the end of the session. They will want to put it off until the very end.” He chuckled in irony. “Of course, by that time, most of our colleagues may have already left, so that there may not be enough of us left to form a quorum. Then the matter will not be raised at all. I will send you a note.”
Hugh said, “Mr. Cullis and I will endeavor to persuade enough members to stay through to the end to ensure a quorum, sir. He advises me, however, that if Mr. Montague has not forwarded the House a copy of the passed act, or if one arrives too late, Mr. Robinson could very well use that as an excuse to prohibit debate on the act, nor even allow it to be proposed as House business.”
“And,” added Cullis, “Mr. Robinson and some of his friends may be up to other deviltry. There is some truth in the rumor that he and others may attempt to burden this colony with debts of their own, through a loan office.”
“I’ve heard that rumor,” said Vishonn. “God’s furies, sirs!” he exclaimed. “We are assailed by caitiffs and coiners wherever we turn!”
* * *
Jack, Hugh, and Proudlocks rode back to their homes together. Jack said, shortly after they left Enderly, “Mr. Kenrick, I almost envy you for being a burgess. I almost regret not being able to sit in the House among so many heaps of defeat and despairing decorum.”
“Why?” asked Hugh.
“You will ha
ve a chance to speak. And when that chance comes, I know you will speak with more force than I heard from you today.” He turned in his saddle with a grin for his friend. “By then, you will have stoked a greater fire in your oratory.”
Hugh shook his head. “Thank you, sir, but I shall merely lay the firewood, and arrange the kindling, and leave it to a better speaker to light a match to it.”
“Your friend, Mr. Henry?”
“Yes,” said Hugh. After a moment, he added, “You and he are much alike. I believe he will speak as you perhaps would speak, and so he will speak for you.” He paused. “You must meet him when you and Etáin come to Williamsburg.”
“I look forward to it.”
The two men talked of other things, as a kind of rest from their concerns about the Stamp Act. Jack thanked Hugh again for the anniversary gifts. “I have you to credit for Etáin’s inattention. She has been busy transcribing the Italian music you gave her for her harp. I shouldn’t complain, though, for I have been buried in the books you gave me. I found in them some interesting ideas on how to reduce the salt I put into the field every time I water them from the river.”
Hugh spoke of things reported to him by his father and mother in a letter that had come with the crate of books and clothes. “The Duke of Richmond, now a friend of my father’s, may go to Paris as ambassador…. A Dutch physician is in London, and published an article on something called variolation, a treatment by which one is given smallpox with a needle, in order to stave off a worse case of it…. My father subscribed to Mr. Johnson’s edition of Shakespeare’s plays, and applauds his preface, in which he credits and defends Shakespeare for having exploded the unities of time and place. Those rules do cripple our drama. I must write him for my own copy…. An Austrian boy by the name of Mozart seems to have enchanted London. He moved with his family to Chelsea, not a few houses away from my parents and sister. There he composed two symphonies. He is only nine, or ten, my mother writes. My family heard him perform under the Ranelagh rotunda. Quite remarkable…. ”
Hugh was silent for a while. Jack glanced over and saw that his friend’s eyes were closed. He reached over and shook his friend’s arm. When Hugh opened his eyes and looked at him, Jack asked, “When was the last time you slept?”
Hugh shook his head once to rid his mind of the drowsiness. “I stopped at an ordinary somewhere between Williamsburg and Richmond, but elected to sleep in its hayloft, where there seemed to be fewer vermin than in the accommodations. They were fewer, but bigger. Not since then. I have not had the time.”
“That was two days ago, Hugh,” said Jack.
“I suppose.”
“When we reach Meum Hall, I shall order Mr. Spears to put you to bed and not disturb you for twenty-four hours. Don’t instruct him otherwise, or he will have to answer to me.”
“But Jack,” Hugh laughed, “you will only confuse the man.”
Proudlocks, riding behind them, also laughed. Jack and Hugh turned in their saddles to face him.
“The men at the meeting,” said Proudlocks, “they are divided, not among themselves, but…within…themselves. They each have a little man inside, who tells him what is right and what is wrong. The bigger man, the one we see, does not always agree with what his little man tells him. But no matter how much the bigger man ignores him, the little man will be heard.”
Hugh and Jack exchanged perplexed glances. Jack waved his tenant forward. “Please, explain that to us, John,” he said, “and how it concerns Mr. Kenrick’s condition.”
Proudlocks urged his mount forward and rode between the two planters. “It is Mr. Adam Smith’s idea,” he said.
Hugh studied the Indian with surprise and admiration. “You have read Mr. Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments, have you not?” He seemed to recover from his drowsiness, and was fully awake now.
“Your own book, sir,” said Proudlocks. “I borrowed it from your library, with Mr. Spears’s permission, when you were in Williamsburg at the Assembly last year.”
“I see. What did you think of it?”
“It is a difficult book to read. Mr. Smith is a confused man, and he confused me.” Proudlocks paused. “You see, when you spoke of confusing Mr. Spears, I thought of the book, and how Mr. Smith would describe the men at the meeting. I have been trying to understand them.”
“Well,” said Hugh, “there are many instances of wisdom in Mr. Smith’s book, but I do not place much confidence in those particular allegations of his. Frankly, I find them preposterous. They are a recasting of the Catholic notion of conscience, and of other such dichotomous doctrines. No such thing exists as an ‘inner man’ who acts as an ‘impartial spectator,’ not in any man. Each man is of a piece, he is whole, and he makes himself.”
Jack asked, “Are you saying that Mr. Smith fished for trout, but landed an ill-fed croaker?”
“Yes,” said Hugh. “I judge his theory to be very little meat dressed on brittle bone.”
Proudlocks said, “I did not say I believed what Mr. Smith said in his book. I said that the men at the meeting acted as if they had little men who troubled them. They know what is right, and true, but are…reluctant to heed their own caution.”
Hugh sighed. “Such as my colleague, Mr. Cullis,” he remarked.
Proudlocks nodded. “Yes. And Mr. Vishonn, and many of the others.” He looked at Hugh and Jack. “You and Mr. Kenrick are not so troubled. This I know: Each of you is woven whole, like the finest basket in Mr. Rittles’s stores.” He paused. “You are not governed by little men. You move yourselves.” Proudlocks considered this observation, then added, “I move myself.” He chuckled. “It is, as you say, Mr. Kenrick, a…preposterous idea.”
Hugh studied the Indian again. “Mr. Proudlocks,” he said, looking ahead over his mount’s bobbing mane, “should you some day decide to write a book of your own, you will allow me the privilege of subscribing to half of your cost.”
Jack said, “And I will cover the other half.”
“Perhaps you will decide to pen an answer to Mr. Smith, and incidentally to Mr. Hume, and Mr. Hobbes, and even Plato,” speculated Hugh. “Make visible Mr. Smith’s ‘invisible hand.’ Confound Mr. Hume’s notion of regular happenstance. Dispose of Mr. Hobbes’s fettered, uncouth beasts.”
The trio rode west together into the spring dusk, three men from mutually radical backgrounds, but united in friendship by their esteem for themselves and for each other. The earth was good, and it was their own.
* * *
The next morning was a Sunday, and in Stepney Parish Church, Reverend Albert Acland delivered a caustic sermon to his congregation.
“…It is a hard matter for men, who do all think highly of their own wits, when they have acquired the learning of a university, to be persuaded that they lack any ability requisite for the government of a commonwealth, or even of this dominion, especially having read the histories of those ancient but pagan popular governments of the Greeks and Romans, among whom government passed in the name of liberty.”
Reverend Acland was indeed versed in Thomas Hobbes, though he had not in years thought that the philosopher was a proper source of material for his sermons. When he returned home from the meeting at Enderly, he rummaged through his small library for his own copy of Leviathan, found it, and spent the evening discovering that it was a wellspring of material. Today, he borrowed liberally from it without informing his congregation that he was paraphrasing and, at times, plagiarizing the philosopher. The objects of his sermon this morning were Jack Frake and Hugh Kenrick, though most of his congregation did not know this. They noted only that their pastor’s words contained a peculiar vehemence, which they assumed was directed toward libertines, unbelievers, and other sinners.
“Before the enjoyment of liberty,” he spoke, “must come the acknowledgment and habit of duty. For duty is an unalienable companion of liberty. Without the restraining hand of duty, liberty descends of its own nature and accord into the frightening, licentious chaos of anarchy!”
>
Reece Vishonn, sitting with his family in one of the front pews, merely blinked his eyes and wrinkled his mouth in distaste for the homily. Henry Otway, Ralph Cullis, and Ira Granby stared up at Reverend Acland with blank, unquestioning expressions. Arthur Stannard, sitting in a pew with his family near the back of the church, muttered to himself, “Amen.”
Chapter 5: The Overture
As John Proudlocks directed the transplanting of thousands of young tobacco plants from their seed beds to Morland’s hills, and contemplated a better way of describing his employer’s character than as a tightly woven basket; as Hugh Kenrick rode with Edgar Cullis to Williamsburg and the new session of the General Assembly; and as Etáin Frake enchanted her husband in the evenings on her harp with transcriptions of Corelli sonatas, a hand invisible to them, but visible nonetheless to anyone discerning enough to notice it, was busy in Europe.
Adam Smith was, at this time, on a grand tour of the Continent as tutor and companion to young Henry Scott, third Duke of Buccleuch and the stepson of Charles Townshend, president of the Board of Trade and recently the mortified object of Colonel Barré’s oratory in the Commons. Smith, who owed his present employment to Townshend’s admiration for The Theory of Moral Sentiments — for his employer regarded himself as something of an economist and moralist — was fresh from a meeting in Geneva with exiled Voltaire, and in the midst of note-taking for a book on economics that would become, eleven years later, an Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations.
Now in Paris, he was being introduced to the cream of the French Enlightenment in the capital’s intellectual and literary salons by his lifelong friend David Hume, secretary and chargé d’affaires for the British embassy, himself lately the lion of French haute esprits and busy arranging new editions of his History of England and Essays and Treatises. That pioneer of formal skepticism may have had at hand then a recently published and circulated treatise by Immanuel Kant, a professor of philosophy at the University of Königsberg, Prussia, Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and the Sublime, perhaps shared it with Smith, discussed its merits and logic, and speculated on the rumor that Herr Kant was, like themselves, the son of a Scotsman. Smith, however, would be more influenced by his conversations with François Quesnay, the leading physiocrat economist, author of the Tableau Économique and contributor to the Encyclopédie. Outlawed John Wilkes was also in Paris, living comfortably on his supporters’ donated money, watching events in London, and waiting for the inevitable change in ministry that might allow him to return.