SH03_Sparrowhawk: Caxton

by Edward Cline

  In that confined space near the captain’s quarters, Jones laid the satchel on the cabin table. “In my new career, sir, I have found it necessary to cultivate some familiarity with men of all kinds of professions, particularly those in the lairs of power and other Crown venues. Most of these placemen naturally assume that I am cooking them for favors, when in fact I seek only intelligence.” He scoffed. “It is no more revolting a pastime than frequenting the company of common rogues, who differ from the placemen only in a want of manners, the crudity of their garb, and an absence of fine, cunning discretion.”

  He paused to tap the satchel once with his cane. “This required the application of not a little mental stealth and some expenditure of guineas. Your father will be similarly honored tomorrow. I ask you not to peruse the contents until you are well out to sea, preferably in midocean. If you read them now, or even when our island is but a smudge on the horizon, you may very well resolve to remain here. But, I assure you, Mr. Kenrick, that the contents will be of greater value to you in Virginia. It is there that they can make a difference.” He studied his attentive host. “I have a second request: that you do not divulge the contents of this parcel to any officer of the Crown, be he parson, Governor, or customs man.” He paused again. “Have I your concession on these points, sir?”

  Hugh nodded, mystified by Jones’s caution, but ready to give his word. “You have, sir.”

  “Good,” said Jones with a sigh of relief. “Forgive me the ominous preamble, but I promise that you will not regret having heeded my advice.”

  “And, I will heed it, Mr. Jones.” Hugh indicated a bottle of claret, a gift from Captain Rowland. It stood next to the satchel. “Will you join me in a glass, sir?”

  Jones nodded. Hugh found two glasses and poured the claret. Jones said, “Pray do not allow the contents to sour the memory of your visit. That is not my intention or hope. If they do, I offer my apologies. But, after your perusal, I urge you to adopt a view of greater breadth than that of the sentiments you will read. That is the only answer to perfidy.”

  Hugh could only smile in answer. He handed the barrister a glass, then raised his own. “To your health, sir.”

  Jones’s stern, guarded expression softened a little. “And, to your health, sir.” He touched Hugh’s glass with his own. “And, long live Lady Liberty.”

  * * *

  An uneventful three weeks at sea passed before Hugh remembered Jones’s satchel, which he had secured in one of his bureau drawers. Until now, his mind had been occupied with memories of his visit, and with some speculation prompted by Jones’s remark about “a view of greater breadth.” A notebook lay open before him on the cabin table, and an inkstand, and a hand holding a quill that paused at the end of a sentence. A squat hurricane lamp with a stubby candle swayed over his head, suspended from a chain, and cast moving shadows in time with the swaying and creaking of the ship.

  Hugh favored metaphysical speculation, at the expense of epistemology. Indeed, there was no term yet for the latter field of philosophical inquiry, though this did not prevent men from inquiring into the question of how men perceived what they were certain existed. Hugh had written, with some uncertainty, three pages of observations on Jones’s remark.

  “The picture is broader, or grander, than most men can see. I have with some modest success sketched that vista for others, to convey it and the importance of seeing it, as others have done for me. But most men must begin with small things and progress to the larger, and have their natural relevance demonstrated, often tediously. And I suppose that Mr. Frake and I and a few others see it in the beginning, and do not relinquish it, and so see it daily, much as we see our own faces in a looking glass. Perhaps all men see it in the beginning of their lives, but, fearing its demands, or caring more for a mess of banal vices, or settling for a slothful torpor, cannot or will not retain it. The picture is rooted in some appraisal of oneself, and projects outward to create a realm of one’s actions, actual and contemplated. We think in that direction, from the minutiae to the grand, and become sovereign of it all. We attempt to persuade other men to see it, to think in that manner, men who are habituated to seeing but a small frame of things. They are more numerous, who care not to bother with the task. Who, then, when power and liberty are in contest, is at the disadvantage: We, or they?”

  Hugh sighed in frustration, for he was exploring a subject unfamiliar to him, and was not certain that he had made observations on Jones’s remark, or had gone beyond it. But the thought of Jones caused him to remember the satchel. He grimaced, closed the notebook, and put it aside. He leaned over, opened the bureau drawer, and took out the mysterious bundle. He untied the string that bound the rough leather satchel, and removed a small pile of papers. On top was a short letter from Jones, dated the day before the Busy left the Pool of London:

  “My dear sir:

  Appended to this missive are copies of drafted documents procured by me a few days ago from a pair of compliant gentleman clerks in the Treasury and the Board of Trade — procured, I might add, for a fee, for a sumptuous repast at the Bear Inn, for the cost of a trifling amusement or two — for a bribe. They are not the authors of these documents, but merely the copyists of the secretaries of those trusting worthies. The documents are in my own hand, as I could not trust the task of copying to another person without risking the same betrayal. The ministry seem to be preparing a proclamation to appear over His Majesty’s seal and signature, and they have not yet settled on its wording.

  You see, most first ministers have only a vague idea or notion of what policies they should adopt. Lords Grenville and Hillsborough (Halifax vacated the Board presidency this summer, you may have read) and their coterie are like their predecessors, disposed to whatever policy will cause them the least grief in the Commons and in audience at St. James’s Palace. The task of dressing those policies with the particulars of means and ends is assigned to lesser men. In this instance, the task fell to Mr. Pownall, secretary to the Board, and Mr. Morgann, Lord Shelburne’s private secretary (Shelburne was offered the Board presidency, but declined). Mr. Morgann, author of one of these documents, is a gentleman of advanced tastes, worthy of Dr. Johnson’s company. I have heard that he is an authority on Mr. Shakespeare, and writes profusely on his dramas. Given the tone and thrust of his own proposals here, I should put it out that he would canonize Iago as an icon of politick virtue, except then I would betray my venal clerk friends in the Treasury and the Board, and so close the door to future acquisitions of this nature….”

  Hugh finished the letter, then picked up the first document. He read it, and then the second.

  From somewhere on the deck above came the rhythmic clopping of sailors dancing to the tune of a hornpipe. Across the passageway, in another cabin, two men, Captain Rowland’s bursar and first mate, were engaged in a friendly argument over a game of chess. A sudden, stiff breeze filled the Busy’s sails, and the vessel lurched forward with a muted groan.

  Hugh heard none of these things. He was rereading the documents for athird time. His face was ashen in sustained shock, his eyes narrowed in an alliance of rage, contempt, and self-control.

  After a while, as the ship’s bells marked the night watch, he tossed the documents down and leaned forward on his elbows, his face in his hands, two fingers pressing shut his eyes. He realized now that a great picture, accurate to the smallest detail and encompassing a wide purpose, was not inherently benign. He knew that this redefined the conflict, from one over the minutiae and particulars of mutually inimical vistas, to one of philosophy.

  Chapter 22: The Bellwether

  At about the time that Hugh was reading the purloined documents, Alden Curle was being interrogated by Basil Kenrick, the Earl of Danvers, concerning a missing Italian vase, which the Earl had

  purchased in a shop on the Strand and had sent Curle to collect. The vase was to have been placed on the fireplace mantel of one of the rooms formerly occupied by the Earl’s brother, who no longer resided
at Windridge Court. The Earl had instructed his staff to close many of those rooms, and to turn some into guest rooms. He had recently inspected the rearranged and refurnished guests rooms, and noted the absence of the vase.

  Curle now stood before his master’s desk in the study, trying to suppress trembling panic, his mind racing to screw up the courage to concoct a credible web of lies that would explain the missing vase, whose value was nearly half his annual wages. He had thrown the parcel with the broken pieces into the Thames after his encounter with Hugh Kenrick.

  “I met your nephew, milord, on my way back with the vase. I did not think you wanted to hear of my encounter.”

  Basil Kenrick knew that his nephew was in town, that he had stayed with his brother’s family in Chelsea, and that he had returned to Virginia some weeks ago. “And…?” prompted the Earl.

  “He is a frightening creature, milord, if you will forgive me for saying so,” said Curle. “More than ever before! He is a…man. He…he beat me with his cane, and knocked the vase from my hands! Were it not for passersby, I believe he would have drawn his sword and run me through!”

  The Earl squinted, and shrugged vaguely. “Did he accost you with words, Curle? His tongue, as I remember, is every bit as wounding as a point of steel.”

  Curle tried to disguise a gulp. “No, milord. He did not. But, he did ask after your health.”

  The Earl grunted in surprise. “What did you tell him?”

  “That you were in fine health, milord,” said the major domo, confident now that he had covered the truth and found a thread of deception to follow. “But, I could not help but think he would have been overjoyed to hear a report that you were ill, milord, or in a bad state.”

  Basil Kenrick studied his servant for a moment. His dagger-like scrutiny caused the man to avert his glance and bow his head.

  The Earl chuckled. “Now you are lying, Curle,” he said. “A dollop of truth mixed with falsehood is always a poor shield. I know my nephew. He was being civil, and I do not believe he beat you with his cane or broke the vase.” He paused. “Why did you not inform me of this meeting, as it was your duty to?”

  Curle could only gulp again, and this time did not try to disguise the action. He ventured, “I…I was afraid that the well-known displeasure of his lordship with his nephew would be…turned on his humble servant, milord. I beg forgiveness for the presumption.”

  “That’s better, Curle,” said Basil Kenrick. “You know as well as I do that he can be civil to a fault. And further, that he would not expend the effort to accost a worm. That energy he conserves for dueling with dukes, and marquesses, and mobs.” He sighed and shook his head. Secretly, he was pleased with the man’s attempt at deception. “You were wrong to fear my wrath, Curle. You offend me with the presumption. For that, and for having lied to me, the price of the vase must be deducted from your honorarium — unless you can produce that sum today.”

  The base, exquisitely decorated with painted scenes of the ruins of the Roman Forum, and inset with gold filigree, had cost six guineas. Curle mumbled, “No, milord, I cannot.”

  The Earl shrugged again. “Very well. You may go.”

  With a bow of relief and gratitude, Alden Curle left the study. The deducted wages would cause him some inconvenience, but no hardship. There were valuable objects of art and the Earl’s cast-off clothing stored in the cellar, items missing from the house inventory, and which Curle was certain the Earl had forgotten about and which he could easily dispose of in London’s street markets to cover the penalty.

  The rebuke worried him more than did the difference the penalty would make in his purse. He was consoled, however, by the knowledge that the Earl would never dismiss him. Just as he knew that he could never last in the employ of an honest, just man, he knew that the Earl had no use for an honest servant. His master needed an obsequious, discreet servant who could repeat, without having to be instructed to, his own lies and falsehoods and shams with nary a blink of an eye or a twitch of the cheek. He knew that, in the Earl’s eyes, this was his chief asset in the household. Curle’s only regret was that his art disintegrated in the presence of the Earl himself.

  * * *

  The evening of that same day, the Earl entertained supper guests at Windridge Court, among them Bevil Grainger, Viscount of Wooten and Clarence, retired Master of the Rolls, King’s Bench; Sir Henoch Pannell, member for Canovan, a “pocket borough” tucked within the confines of London and the county of Middlesex, themselves boroughs; Crispin Hillier, member for Onyxcombe, Dorset; Sir Fulke Treverlyn, an attorney and member for Old Boothby, Cheshire; and Captain James Holets, member for Oakhead Abbas, Essex company commander in the Foot Guards. There were others, for a total of fourteen male guests, all members of the Commons, too, except for the Earl and the viscount, who sat in Lords.

  It was unusual for the Earl to entertain guests; and more so the number of them this evening. But Crispin Hillier had suggested to him that it would be a practical gesture that would serve to cement the bloc of votes the party represented in the Commons, or rather that the Earl controlled there. Also, the occasion would give the Earl the opportunity to meet the members of his bloc and to appraise their interests and loyalties. The supper was treated by the guests as a kind of celebration for the formation of a strong and vocal force in the Commons, and by the Earl, as an exercise in annoying but necessary drollery.

  Basil Kenrick, at the head of the table, flanked by Viscount Wooten and Crispin Hillier, set the tone of the supper party. He announced, as the guests sat at the long, resplendently set table, waiting for the first course, a development in the ministry. He rose and said, “I have it on good authority that the Treasury is near to completing a memorial to the Privy Council. It will state its recommendations concerning the matter of a more stringent collection of duties and levies from the colonies. Further, I have it on good authority from a person on the Council that the Council will refine the memorial to include other North American colonies for an Order in Council to be enacted with His Majesty’s approval. Both the memorial and Order are undoubtedly overtures to a royal proclamation by His Majesty himself, whose own and rightful purpose is to contain and regulate the colonies in a more masterful manner than heretofore exerted. His Majesty’s proclamation will be published in a few weeks, before the next session of Parliament convenes.”

  All the guests, except for Hillier and Pannell, stared at their host, amazed, speechless, and delighted. It was not news to either Pannell or Hillier; the Earl had informed them earlier, before the other guests had arrived. Pannell looked smug and all-knowing; Hillier was taciturn. The Earl glanced up at the portrait of his father, Guy Kenrick, the fourteenth Earl of Danvers. For the first time ever, the dour, haughty visage seemed to regard him with approval. He smiled at the stupid faces down the length of the table, and added, “Your task, sirs, is to persuade your House to complement His Majesty’s wishes with actions commensurate with his patriotic spirit, actions that will ensure the political and material solvency and security of the Crown, of this nation, and of the empire.”

  “Hear, hear!” said Crispin Hillier quietly. Other guests seconded him. Henoch Pannell grinned broadly, and addressed the table at large. He had invested a great deal of time and energy putting the bloc together, working with Hillier. He felt he had a right to second the Earl’s motion in his own way. “In a word, milord and my many sirs,” he ventured, “His Majesty intends to lock the colonies in their stables, and lunge them at the Crown’s pleasure. A more proper and just patriotism than that, I cannot imagine!”

  By the third course, Viscount Wooten cleared his throat and said, “Lord Danvers, Sir Henoch there tells me that your brother has secured a seat in the House. For Swansditch, I believe. Now, I knew the man who will sit for him. He defended some libelers in a trial of mine some years ago, and nearly libeled me in the bargain! He is a violent, rash, outspoken man, much like this Mr. Wilkes. A most troubling and troublesome chap. What could your brother be thinking by
endorsing such a fellow?”

  Basil Kenrick grimaced and shook his head in dismissal of the subject. “He is opposing me out of spite, Lord Wooten. That is all there is to it. I have not worried myself much about it.” He turned to Crispin Hillier and nodded.

  Hillier smiled. “Troublesome, Lord Wooten? I doubt that. He is but one man. He may be ignored at no risk. Sir Henoch and I have made his acquaintance, and judge him to be in unmovable opposition to our party. He may ally himself on particular matters, such as Mr. Wilkes, or against the land and cider taxes, but he is essentially hostile to the Crown. That stance will not only govern the character of his seat and career in the House, but alienate the affections of his natural friends there.”

  Sir Henoch laughed and added, “His greatest enemies, Lord Wooten, will not be our worthy people, but the cowards who would like to agree with him but haven’t the bottom. Mr. Hillier is correct in his assessment of Sir Dogmael Jones. He will find himself alone. Upon my word, Lord Wooten, you needn’t trouble yourself about him. Against him, or anyone else who questions the wisdom of the Crown, I have taken great pains to ensure that there are no see-sawing whifflers in our party!”

  Chapter 23: The Autumn

  The crew and passengers of any vessel making its way up the York River in late October could see, on either bank, tentative slashes of brilliant orange, red, and yellow in the leaves of the trees, or little bursts of flame in the green that would spread and engulf everything by the end of November.

  The wide river was busier now than at any other time of the year, for this was the apex of the planters’ season, a time when harvested crops were prepared for shipment across the ocean and along the seaboard to other colonies. Merchantmen, brigs, and sloops plied up and down the waterway, on their way back to Chesapeake Bay’s ports, or upriver to load, by derrick, lighter, and sling cargoes of tobacco, corn, lumber, and iron. Vessels sat anchored at wooden and earthen piers and docks, sails furled and rigging slack, their gang-boards springing and straining under the hustle of slaves and crews who descended into cargo holds as they labored to take on casks, hogsheads, sacks, crates, and bundles, or reappeared with them to pile them on the piers.