by Edward Cline
Fleming posited, “By then, there may be just enough of the House left to form a quorum, and then we will be almost evenly matched.”
“Or divided,” remarked Munford. Then the colonel frowned in sudden, astonished realization. He leaned over again and saw a broad grin on Patrick Henry’s face. “You foresaw this, didn’t you, sir?”
Patrick Henry laughed quietly to himself. “Foresaw it, sir? Say, rather, I depended on it!” He nodded to the passing carriage of one of the wealthier burgesses. “The flight of these gentlemen is the greatest service they could perform for their country. They will not stand up to the Crown. They are making way for men who will.” He glanced down the row of men on the bench. His smile vanished, and he rose to face them. Doffing his hat, he said gravely, “I salute you, sirs, for choosing to remain with me on this perilously empty field of honor and liberty.”
Chapter 8: The Kindling
The exodus continued the next day and throughout the week as the House of Burgesses was steadily deserted by departing members. Washington, disappointed that the loan office proposal had passed, and certain that it would be approved by the Council, left on Sunday, May 26, after attending services at Bruton Parish Church with Lieutenant-Governor Fauquier. Other burgesses left that same day, confident that a loan office and financial rescue were in their future.
On Monday, the 27th, the loan office committee conferred with the Council.
On Tuesday, the House resumed its business, and the Council returned to it several bills that it had passed and received the Governor’s signature, and one that had not—the loan office proposal, which was unanimously rejected.
During that day’s afternoon recess, in the arcade that connected the House and Council chambers, an inconsolable Edmund Pendleton met with some of the “old guard” of the House and announced his own imminent departure. “This very evening,” he said. “My work is finished here, and was fruitless. The Council, acting on bad and perhaps slanderous advice, has seen fit to ignore our pleas and scuttle the only accomplishment this session could have boasted.”
He could not be persuaded to stay even to join them for dinner, although it occurred to none of his colleagues to urge him to stay and help defeat whatever mischief was afoot among the new burgesses concerning the Stamp Act, which was scheduled to be considered in the House the next day. Nor did it occur to Pendleton that perhaps he would be needed in this task. They were all certain that some resolutions would be proposed; and they were all certain that these would be deemed redundant and subsequently voted down. Peyton Randolph, George Wythe, and Richard Bland all felt equal to the task. It was not an issue of whether or not it could be done, but rather one of how quickly it could be done, so that the House could finish its business and adjourn the session.
After a round of handshakes, farewells, and Godspeeds, Pendleton left the arcade for his inn to begin packing for the long carriage ride home to Caroline County.
It was a caretaker House that reconvened at the ten o’clock bell on May 29. Of the one hundred and sixteen burgesses who held seats in the House, perhaps only eighty attended that May session. By this morning, just thirty-nine took their places on the benches in the chamber, only eleven more than were needed for a quorum. They were outnumbered by the crowd of spectators in the public space near the lobby door.
Hugh Kenrick sat with Edgar Cullis on one of the upper benches, above Patrick Henry, John Fleming, George Johnston, and Colonel Munford. He glanced around the sparsely occupied chamber with a sense that history was about to be made in it. This sense was buoyed by his recollection of something Henry had remarked to him last fall, after his maiden speech on the original protests. He had come to know most of the absent burgesses well enough that he was certain that he had a right to think this about them: The lazy did not care to think about the Stamp Act, let alone debate it, feeling that the subject was beyond their presumption of approval or disapproval; the thoughtless were indifferent to both the importance of the Act and to anyone’s objection to it, believing with the lazy that the Act was not so bad that they could not in time adapt themselves to it; and the ignorant were oblivious to anything of importance.
Hugh suspected that most of these men wished that history and great men and great events would pass them by and leave them alone. Great events meant trouble and the upsetting of routines of thought and action. Being asked to think and act outside the familiar, safe confines of mundane concerns was, to them, an infuriating invasion of their perceived right to exist in careless, guaranteed, undisturbed anonymity.
The spectators were composed largely of merchants and tradesmen, observed Hugh, with a sprinkling of Council members. Thomas Jefferson had come too late to find a seat on the benches, and stood near the lobby door with the House usher. Seated on a front bench behind the railing that separated the public space from the floor were Jack Frake, Etáin, John Proudlocks, and John Ramshaw, who was staying at Morland. Hugh had sent Jack a note on Monday, alerting him to the impending discussion of the Stamp Act. Jack and his party arrived in Williamsburg this morning, and were staying at the house of an acquaintance.
Behind them also sat Wendel Barret of the Courier. After discussing the idea with Henry and his allies, Hugh sent Barret a separate note in which he proposed that the publisher print in secret all of Henry’s resolves and post them to other colonial newspapers, regardless of what the House did about them. Both he and Barret doubted that Joseph Royle, editor of the official Gazette, would print them even should they receive unanimous endorsements.
“Where are all your patriots?” Ramshaw had asked earlier that day, when the remaining burgesses were gathered in the yard outside the House, waiting to go in, and Hugh stood with his visitors. The captain waved a pipe around the yard, and incredulous doubt was in his face. He had attended on occasion, in the past, sessions of the Commons, and was accustomed to seeing hundreds of men and hearing the babble of as many voices. Jack Frake was also surprised; he had expected to encounter near-full attendance on such an important occasion. He stood next to Ramshaw with a lit seegar, studying the burgess in dark clothing who dominated a conversation across the yard. Hugh had introduced this man, Patrick Henry, to his visitors, and after a brief exchange of cordialities, the intense burgess excused himself when he was approached by his allies for an impromptu, private conference.
Hugh had smiled and nodded to that group. “They are there, Mr. Ramshaw. We shall be seated on the right side of the House, on the Speaker’s left, with the arcing sun behind us.”
The morning and early afternoon passed quietly as the House approved of the Treasurer’s accounts — “That won’t come so easily next session,” predicted Edgar Cullis — heard readings of other bills, and voted on the allocation of fifty pounds to repair the organ at Bruton Church. Hugh voted against the latter, while Cullis voted for it. “Why, sir?” he asked Hugh in whispered surprise. Hugh had replied, “If the parishioners there wish to hear an organ, let them be more generous in the collection plate.”
Hugh noticed that Robinson, Wythe, Randolph, and Bland and other members of the “old guard” threw surreptitious glances at Patrick Henry and many of the new burgesses from the western counties, unsure of what to expect of them today. They seemed to be bracing themselves for an assault on their hegemony in the House. They were right to be anxious. The “new guard,” cleaved from the “old” not only by a generation, but by a combination of its own alliances, sympathies, wealth, and ambition, was determined to either force the “old guard” to more forthrightly address the issue of growing Crown power, or replace it in leadership. The muted anxiety and nonchalant confidence of the two groups created a premonitory tension in the chamber as routine business matters, one by one, were taken care of.
During a brief hiatus in that business, while John Randolph and his clerks were busy shuffling papers, and the House was loud with the shifting restlessness of burgesses and spectators, and Peyton Randolph was conferring with Richard Bland on some matter, George Jo
hnston rose and was recognized, almost as an afterthought, by Speaker Robinson.
Johnston spoke, and the hubbub ceased instantly. “I move that this House resolve itself into a Committee of the Whole House to immediately consider the steps necessary to be taken by us as a consequence of the resolutions of the House of Commons, that have now passed into law, relative to the charging of certain stamp duties in the American colonies.”
As soon as Johnston sat down, Patrick Henry rose. He spoke calmly, so as not to frighten the men he knew were afraid of him. “I second the motion.” He sat down and began sifting through some papers he took from his portfolio.
Speaker Robinson could do little else but acknowledge the motion. The day’s scheduled business was completed, except for discussion of the Stamp Act. A refusal to debate a “rumor” was out of the question now; too many burgesses had seen the official copy yesterday, and had read much of it at the Clerk’s table. And news of its arrival had spread around town, many of whose inhabitants were present as spectators. And two hours remained before the House could recess for dinner. Robinson and Peyton Randolph exchanged looks of insouciant resignation. Perhaps the matter could be concluded, once and for all, before dinner, they told each other in that silent exchange. With swift, meaningful looks at Richard Bland and George Wythe, Robinson tapped his cane once on the floor and said to the House, “This House has elected to go into a Committee of the Whole to discuss the late statute known as the Stamp Act. The clerk will remove the mace.”
As the Speaker rose and walked to a bench to sit as the burgess for King and Queen County, Peyton Randolph rose and stood by the Speaker’s chair. In one hand he held a rolled-up sheaf of papers, the bound copy of the Stamp Act presented to the House the day before. William Ferguson, who had read the address, memorial, and remonstrance to the House in December, on a cue from John Randolph, the chief clerk, came around the table and with both hands picked up the gold-plated mace. At that moment, through one of the tall, rectangular windows above the benches occupied mostly by the “new guard,” a ray of sunlight glinted on the object in a single brilliant flash, then was gone as Ferguson gently put the mace on a shelf beneath the draped cloth of the table. Peyton Randolph then stepped up to the table and laid the Stamp Act in the mace’s place. The same ray of sunlight shone now on the white first page, and after a moment, was gone.
Peyton Randolph turned, walked back to the Speaker’s chair, and sat down in it. The Attorney-General leaned back, crossed his ample legs, and announced, “The floor is open, gentlemen. What say you?”
George Wythe rose and was recognized by Randolph. He spoke as though he were repeating for his colleagues’s sake the simple rules of arithmetic. “Any discussion of the act by this House now would be premature, not to say discourteous, for we have not yet received replies to our protests of December last, at the beginning of this session. Such action by this House now would appear to be hasty, unwarranted, and precipitant. The particulars of this statute deserve discussion, and hearty discussion at that, but it would be unfair to ourselves and to the authors of those particulars if this House passed formal judgment on them without having given our cousins in London an opportunity to reply to our misgivings.” Wythe sat down.
John Fleming rose from across the floor and was recognized. He said, with a restrained mockery whose object was unclear, “I must remind you, sir, and this House, that if our protests were going to be answered, we should have had those answers long before a copy of the act came into this House. I say that we have waited in vain for pigs to fly.” This remark drew some laughter from both sides of the House, and among the spectators. “And,” continued the burgess from Fairfax in a more serious tone, “it is my understanding that Mr. Montague and Mr. Abercromby have already informed their correspondents here that neither the Commons nor Lords have deigned to recognize our protests.” He smiled pointedly at Wythe. “May I remind you, sir, and the House, that a spurned, unread letter cannot be replied to or answered?”
Colonel Richard Bland, the House “constitutionalist,” rose, was quickly recognized by Randolph, and rescued the chairman of those committees of correspondence from the necessity of explaining to the House why they had not informed it of those reports. “That those bodies have not recognized our protests, sir, does not imply that we should not any day now receive replies to them, nor does the tardiness of those replies imply any right of ours to rush to judgment. It is the privileged discretion of Parliament to recognize protests and to answer them, or not.” He paused to clear his throat. “Further, the intricacies of our excellent Constitution preclude rash assertions about whether our Parliament has remained within its bounden precincts, or has overstepped them. Neither is this a subject to be discussed in haste.” Bland sat down.
John Ramshaw leaned closer to Jack Frake and scoffed, “Gadso, my friend! These fellows find themselves in a sinking ship in mid-ocean, yet they quibble that water is wet and may soil their shoes, so they will not help man the pumps!”
John Proudlocks, who overheard Ramshaw’s remark, murmured to himself, “They are afraid of their little men.”
Jack said to Etáin, “They are trying to salvage their own day books.” Etáin nodded in understanding. Her husband had been sent a copy of Henry’s resolves by Hugh. She understood him again when he added, “But another book is about to be written here today.”
Etáin smiled. “I am glad that Hugh will have a hand in writing it.”
Colonel Robert Munford rose and replied directly to his fellow militia officer. “The firelock has been rammed with double steel ball, sir, the priming pan packed with the driest powder, and the cock pulled back!” He turned to address the House. “Must we now wait for the muzzle to be pressed against our heads before we are absolutely certain that our elective brothers across the sea mean us harm? I know of no rule of civility that commands a man to behave like an addled half-wit in the face of a menace!” He gestured to the Stamp Act on the Clerk’s table. “There is the weapon, sirs! It will be leveled at us on November first! Let us disarm it, or move ourselves beyond its range!”
“Hear! Hear!” exclaimed many burgesses on the right side of the chamber.
The House was then treated to a novelty: John Robinson rose to speak. None of the burgesses, not even those among the “old guard,” could remember the last time he had anything to say in this forum on any matter, though his voting habits were well known. He said slowly, almost shyly, “I shall only paraphrase something which the esteemed Mr. Bland remarked here in December, gentlemen, that warlike speech may provoke warlike…consequences. I fear that the belligerent mood of many in this House today, if it is allowed in any form to be communicated to our brethren across the sea — and to His Majesty — may justifiably provoke an unfortunate and irreparable hostility. If we must discuss this statute, let us calmly discuss the facts of it, and refrain from seeing devils and demons in it. Let us spare ourselves the dangerous similes and absurd writhings of mis-careered thespians. This House is not a theater, and we are not a troupe of players.” Robinson smiled, nodded once to Peyton Randolph, and sat down. He looked across the floor at Colonel Munford, and reserved for him a smile that was both smug and daring.
While most of the House chuckled at the Speaker’s remarks, and some voices exclaimed, “Hear! Hear!” Patrick Henry glanced briefly up at Hugh Kenrick. Hugh girded himself to rise, but was beaten to recognition by Richard Bland.
“I am obliged to my colleague,” said Bland with a bow to the Speaker, “for complimenting me with his remembrance. And I will support his sentiment by adding only that this matter ought not to be made a vehicle for Phocensian despair.” He bowed again before he resumed his seat, this time to Randolph for the opportunity to speak again so soon.
Edgar Cullis’s face wrinkled in confusion. “What did he say?” he wondered out loud to Hugh.
But Hugh did not hear his colleague’s query. He was standing before Cullis had uttered the first word.
Peyton Randolph saw
that the burgess for Queen Anne had risen even as others were still rising. He did not quite disguise a grimace, but nodded in recognition. He committed precedent, though, and allowed himself a sardonic comment. “Ah, Mr. Kenrick. Doubtless you are about to correct our learned colleague’s antiquitish lore.”
The House laughed. Even Cullis permitted himself a chuckle.
Hugh replied, “No, sir. I would not presume to offend Colonel Bland’s wisdom with correction, but merely annotate his remark to say that when the men of Phocis ploughed the field of Delphi, it was neither Apollo nor his oracles who declared war on them, but their superstitious neighbors. The men of Phocis despaired of defending themselves against the invaders,” he said for the House’s edification, “and rather than be conquered and punished by them, built a funeral pyre for themselves and their families. But, before it could be lit, and as the invaders approached, those same men, because they wished to live, instead marched out in desperation and defeated their enemies.”
Hugh turned and addressed Bland. “It may be presumed that an oracle of reason told them to plough the field, and also to fight one last time for their liberty. You may correct me, sir, but did not that incident occur during one of the Sacred Wars?”
This was not the reply that anyone in the House expected to hear. The Attorney-General gaped with an open mouth, which soon snapped shut, while Colonel Bland blinked in surprise. That man rose, nodded in reluctant concession, then resumed his seat. Patrick Henry turned his head to smile up at Hugh in his own admiring astonishment.
Hugh continued, “But this particular foray into antiquity was not how I wished to open my remarks, although I will say that I hope that, given the subject of our discussion, we will not find ourselves some day in a state of Phocensian despair. My purpose is to comply with Mr. Robinson’s caution, and present for this House’s consideration some facts about the Stamp Act.”