by Edward Cline
Henry held up the page in his hand and shook it as he spoke. “Challenges, sirs, not remonstrances, are in order today! Resolutions, not memorials!” Then he dropped his hand, and gazed up at the ceiling and the cream-colored walls of the chamber. “Look around you, gentlemen. This is our forum, our legislature. It is a living, honorable thing, this hall, because we may meet in it to conduct our own business.” Then he lowered his head, and looked around him with stern eyes. “But,” he said in a warning, almost menacing voice, “neglect to challenge this law, and I foresee the day when this hall of liberty will become a mausoleum, redolent with the fading echoes of a distant, glorious freedom which from shame you may be reluctant to remember, and of which your children will have no notion, because we failed. Posterity will not look kindly upon us, should we fail. What might happen to this chamber? Well, in one of the many inglorious chapters that comprise the downfall of ancient Rome, it is noted that the Hall of Liberty was made to serve as a barracks for the mercenaries of an emperor. But perhaps events will be merciful, and this place will be burned and leveled by our wardens to prevent us from ever again presuming to conduct our own business without fear of offense or penalty.”
All in the chamber listened in many varieties of quietude. Some men wished that they had said these things — and also that they had never heard them, for they knew that no answering oration could persuade men to forget what they were hearing. Others were rapt in thought and imagination, and listened to this man with a reverent attention they had never paid a minister, and never would, for Henry spoke, not of heaven, or of God’s grace, or of afterlife damnation or reward, but of the requirements for the salvation and nobility of their souls here on earth.
Among the men who wished they had never heard his words were George Wythe, Richard Bland, and Peyton Randolph, and the word that convinced them that Henry must be opposed and answered was emperor. That word made them tremble with fear, lest the Governor hear that it had been spoken, and naturally conclude, just as they did, that it was an allusive reference to His Majesty. Henry had so far said nothing they could disagree with. They believed, however, that Parliament could be reproved without scolding it, and that the king could be advised and corrected without rebuking or offending him. They believed it was possible to revolt without reprimand, risk, or revolution. Besides, they felt offended by Henry’s characterization of their past efforts as “genuflective beseechments” and “adulatory objurgations,” and of themselves as “effusive mendicants.” These slights weighed as much with them as did their practical fears.
Henry held up the page in his hand. “Here are some resolves.” He began pacing before the first tier of benches, sometimes reading from the page, sometimes reciting its contents from memory.
“Whereas, the honorable House of Commons in England have of late drawn into question how far the General Assembly of this colony hath the power to enact laws for laying of taxes and imposing duties payable by the people of this, His Majesty’s most ancient colony; for setting and ascertaining the same to all future times, the House of Burgesses of this present General Assembly have come to the following resolves.”
Henry stopped to gesture once with his other hand in acknowledgement of an obvious fact. “Resolved, that the first adventurers and settlers of this His Majesty’s colony and dominion of Virginia brought with them, and transmitted to their posterity, and all other of His Majesty’s subjects since inhabiting in this His Majesty’s said colony, all the privileges and immunities that have at any time been held, enjoyed, and possessed by the people of Great Britain.” He paused to allow a protest or contradiction to be voiced by someone on the other side of the chamber. No one rose to speak. He read on.
“Resolved, that by two royal charters, granted by King James the First, the colonists aforesaid are declared entitled to all the privileges, liberties, and immunities of denizens and natural-born subjects, to all intents and purposes, as if they had been abiding and born within the realm of England.”
Again, Henry paused to glance around. No one rose to protest, comment, or contradict him. He exchanged looks with the chief opponents on the other side of the House — Wythe, Bland, Robinson, and Randolph — and saw in their set expressions and frozen eyes that they wished they could protest, but could not.
He went on. “Resolved, that the taxation of the people by themselves, or by persons chosen by themselves to represent them, who can only know what taxes the people are able to bear, and the easiest mode of raising them, and who must themselves be equally affected by such taxes — an arrangement,” interjected Henry, “which is the surest security against burdensome taxation by our own representatives —” then continued to read from the page, “is the distinguishing characteristic of British freedom, and without which the ancient Constitution cannot subsist.”
Henry paused again, and Peyton Randolph, who was nearest him, imagined he saw a devilish smile fleet over the man’s face. “Resolve the fourth, gentlemen: That His Majesty’s liege people of this his most ancient and loyal colony of Virginia, have without interruption enjoyed the precious right of being thus governed by their own Assembly in the article of their taxes and internal police, and that the same hath never been forfeited or in any other way given up or surrendered, but hath been constantly recognized by the kings and people of Great Britain.”
Henry stopped and glanced around the chamber. “Those, sirs, are the premises of a uniquely extended syllogism. Here is its conclusion.” He snapped up the page and read from it in a precise, impavid voice. “Resolved, that the General Assembly of this colony have the only and sole exclusive right and power to lay taxes and impositions upon the inhabitants of this colony, and that every attempt to vest such power in any person or persons whatsoever, other than the General Assembly of this colony, has a manifest tendency to destroy British as well as American freedom!”
Henry read the fifth resolve in the manner of an ultimatum, of a royal decree, of a commandment. It was delivered with the authority of an absolute, unquestioned, and unquestionable moral certainty.
Some burgesses groaned in fear. Others scoffed in anger. Richard Bland muttered to himself, “But only three parts make a syllogism!” Peyton Randolph, who faced the spectators, saw in that crowd too many faces that regarded Henry with an admiration that meant more than mere agreement with him.
Henry’s hand dropped to his side, the lethal page fluttering in the air. He addressed Randolph. “There are two more resolves to be read, sir, but these five are their foundation, and must be adopted before the sixth and seventh can have any meaning or force.” He nodded in courtesy to the chairman. “You may open the floor to contest.” He returned to his seat and sat down. Colonel Munford handed him his hat. Henry put it back on his head with a gesture of finality.
Randolph looked to his allies for some indication from them that they were immediately prepared to argue the resolves back onto that fluttering page and out of men’s minds, to confound Henry’s oratory with eloquence of their own. But all he saw in their expressions was angry, closed-mouth dumbness. He, too, was in a state of speechlessness. Randolph silently cursed Edmund Pendleton, their best speaker, for having gone home.
Not a single truth in the resolves could be denied, thought Randolph. He was even willing to concede the truth contained in the fifth. But it was a dangerous truth, a truth which, if uttered to the Governor, or written in a formal protest, would directly challenge Parliamentary authority. It was a truth that could be extended and applied to all Crown authority. It was a truth that contradicted the entire apparatus of the Empire. It was a truth that could bring war, if it were allowed to emerge from the House as a conviction.
Randolph had been Attorney-General for twenty-one years. He remembered that he had served well both Virginia and the king all these years. He remembered now, with some bitterness, his journey to England over ten years ago to represent the colony and this House in the conflict over Governor Dinwiddie’s pistole fee and the legal authority of a roya
l governor imposing his own land tax. A compromise had been reached, even though then, too, the House’s resolves were rejected by Parliament and the king. Randolph well remembered the contemptuous harangue of the King’s Counsel and Attorney-General, William Murray, now Baron Mansfield and Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, against “this little assembly — this puny House of Burgesses,” for having “boldly dared to do what the House of Commons never presume to attempt,” that is, to question the king’s right to dispose of his lands as he pleased. The counsel for the House had argued that the burgesses were objecting, not to their sovereign’s actions, but to those of his viceroy. The result of that conflict was that Dinwiddie’s wrist was slapped by the Board of Trade, and the matter was dropped. But Murray upheld the Crown’s right to govern the colonies, whether in the name of the king or of Parliament.
And here was a man who denied that right, who flouted and contradicted centuries-old wisdom! Randolph thought: I, who trained for the law at the Middle Temple, was not permitted to argue this colony’s case, and had to hire a councilor! Yet this man, this…country boy who may as well have appeared here in a hunting shirt, who had only just recently discovered law books, and had no legal training whatsoever, this man presumes to match himself in the Cockpit of the Privy Council against Baron Mansfield, Chief Justice? Why, the prospect was absurd, it did violence to the mind! Those two at bare fists over the king’s pleasure and the Constitution? Murder would be done by one or the other! And, no matter who remained standing, Virginia, and any man here who approved of the fifth resolve, would pay a penalty too terrible to contemplate! No, thought Randolph, resolves we might have — but not those resolves!
Some words came to his mind then, words that inadequately described what he had just heard: keenness and vigor. Then he remembered who had spoken them, and when, and why. He glanced up at Hugh Kenrick, who sat above Henry. Both men — indeed, most of the members on that side of the House — were studying him with a daring air of patient expectation. What an unholy alliance! wondered Randolph.
He sighed and spoke. “The gentleman will please read again his resolutions to the committee, so that they may be discussed and voted on by the House, in accordance with proper form.” He composed himself as best he could, bracing himself for the violence he was certain would erupt.
Henry rose and read the resolves. After each was read and seconded by George Johnston and others in Henry’s party, a lively debate ensued, and Randolph, torn between a desire to seem fair and impartial, and an instinct for judging the time right to end debate and call for a vote he hoped would defeat each resolve, became visibly agitated at the acrimony and course of events.
“I object to these resolutions for two reasons,” proclaimed Wythe. “They are redundant, for they merely reiterate our protests of last fall! And those protests have now been cast in imprudent and, one may say, insolent language!”
George Johnston replied, “The gentleman complains that the Roman geese are too noisy, and disturb his sleep!”
“The language of these resolves is abhorrent and bellicose!” insisted Bland.
Henry replied, “I saw no purpose in the sham piety of this House’s former protests — and I see no consequence!”
“Sham piety?” retorted Landon Carter, burgess for Richmond. “Do you doubt our loyalty to His Majesty? That is more likely a description of your own dearth of respect for the Crown!”
“My respect for the Crown is not a whit less than that which I have for British liberty and the Constitution, sir!” roared Henry.
“Sham piety may amuse us in a farce,” said Colonel Munford, “where it is held to ridicule and produces laughter! But that mawkish behavior has never protected a man’s property or person from a highwayman, and it will not serve that purpose now!”
“If our past protests were written in sham piety, sir, I have not heard the timbers of this House crack or shake from the rollicking gaiety of its members!”
“These resolves are riddled with ungenerous insinuations that cannot but be noticed and marked by their lordships and our brothers in the Commons.”
“These resolves are near treasonous!”
“And not this act?”
“His Majesty will protect this colony, and all his dominions, once he perceives the folly of this act!” said another burgess. “But were he to read the language of these resolves, he may think the devil may take us, and who would blame him?”
“Who is to instruct him in that folly, sir? That phalanx of philosophers on the Privy Council? That synod of sages on the Board of Trade? Lord Bute? That man seems to have instructed his pupil well in the role of king.”
“You go too far, sir!”
“May I remind the gentleman that His Majesty commissioned the Privy Seal, Lord Marlborough, to endorse this act, and in so doing confessed his approval of it as a mode of ‘protecting’ his dominions, as surely as if it bore his own signature!”
“And may I also remind that gentleman that his late Proclamation erected the walls of a prison here, and that this act represents the first of many fees we are likely to be charged for inhabiting this prison? The analogy of that young gentleman to Bridewell Prison is quite appropriate!”
“You asperse the character of the king, sir!”
“Then I asperse what is not there, sir! Hardly an offense!”
“We are represented in Parliament, gentlemen, by the Constitution and the king! If we were not, would Parliament have dared pass this act?”
“We are not represented, sir, and this act is extralegal in that context!”
“Why all this fuss and noise over a few pence and shillings?”
“Our liberty is worth at least a few pence and shillings, sir! Ought we to wait until it is worth a few pounds or guineas to make a fuss? A sack of Spanish dollars? Perhaps, our very lives?”
“You gentlemen and these resolves build a bonfire to roast a pigeon! That is all I am saying.”
“You may depend on it — I will not surrender my liberty for a farthing, never mind a penny! No stamps will ever blot my life!”
“Brave words, sir, but they sound like bluster! Wait until you are caught between idealism and inconvenience!”
“I am a veteran of the late war, sir, and if I could do it, I would call as witnesses to my ‘bluster’ the score of Frenchmen and Indians I killed in personal combat! Decorum forbids me from showing the House the scars of battle that map my body!”
The House forgot to recess for dinner that afternoon, so engrossed were the members by the necessity or danger of the resolves. At one point, when Peyton Randolph was discouraged by the bitter exchanges and the ominous course of the voting, he pulled out his watch and saw with a gasp that it was nearly six o’clock. He conceded defeat, ignored a number of members who had risen on both sides of the House, and abruptly called for a vote on the fifth resolve. John Randolph, William Ferguson, and Clough Anderson, who had recorded the resolves and the first four votes, prepared themselves for the last.
The first four resolves were passed by the Committee of the Whole House by twenty-two to seventeen. The fifth passed by a single vote. Peyton Randolph announced, “The Committee has seen fit to adopt Mr. Henry’s resolutions, which will be reported to the House on the morrow. The hour being so late, the House will recess until the bell at ten o’clock.”
It was a stream of angry, sour-faced older burgesses that first filed out past the spectators from the chamber, leaving first by courtesy of the younger members out of deference to age and wisdom. Henry and his party lingered behind on the benches, in a manner of having won and held the field of battle.
Hugh Kenrick stepped down from his seat and held out his hand to Patrick Henry, who took it. They shook with a feeling of triumph. “My congratulations, sir,” said Hugh. “You wield an effective sword. I have much to learn from you.”
Henry laughed. “No, sir, you do not. But I tolerate sham modesty more than I do sham piety!” He paused when Johnston, Munford, Fleming, and the
others who had voted for the resolves and who had gathered around him all laughed. Then he said, “Sirs, I fear that we may still have a fight to face, especially over the fifth resolve. Be prepared. Those other gentlemen are moved by fear, and that can be just as powerful a force as certitude. I beg you to recall Mr. Kenrick’s remarks on Phocensian despair. Our work will be completed when the House adopts all five resolves, and God willing, the sixth and seventh.”
* * *
As the remaining burgesses left the chamber with a boisterous crowd of spectators, Hugh was met at the railing by his friends. His mind was still spinning from the victory and his role in it. He was only dimly aware of what his friends were saying.
“You acquitted yourself magnificently, Hugh,” said Etáin, who leaned up to buss him on the cheek.
“Well done, son!” laughed Wendel Barret. “I don’t care if the Governor revokes my license for it, but I shall print those resolves and send them to every newspaper in these colonies! They ought to light more fireworks like we saw here!”
“By God, Jack,” exclaimed John Ramshaw as he slapped and gripped Hugh’s shoulder, “this lad and Mr. Henry blew the heads of those nay-sayers as surely as you ended Paul Robichaux’s career! They are dead in the water!”