Sparrowhawk III
Page 16
Hugh grinned in appreciation. “A ‘circumspect, dissembling expediency,’” he repeated. “An excellent way of naming what may well be the best of their good intentions. Why, it is the companion of our neighbors’ stubborn disbelief — a circumspect, dissembling delusion!” He shrugged lightly. “Then the solution is to somehow wrest the power from the placemen and Parliament and boards and councils to pluck us from the epergne of empire, and to find a means to deny it to them and their ilk for all time. It is an engineering task, one that has maddened many a fine mind.” He smiled again, and bowed slightly to Jack. “You may very likely be the one to make that enraging speech, Mr. Frake.”
“Or you,” Jack said.
Hugh gestured to the house. “Will you stay to supper? We have much to talk about, aside from our parliamentary division.”
“I was about to ask you to supper.” “You’re here, and I insist.”
* * *
“Wonder,” noted a contemporary of Samuel Johnson, “is involuntary praise.” Supper passed, and then midnight. Astonishment erased all sense of time in the two young men, and astonishment itself gave way to wonder. Each man wished to understand why the other was so much like himself. Their conversation over tea, supper, and spirits, a conversation composed of a constant exchange of episodes, incidents, and adventures, silently wove the fabric of a bond for which friendship was merely the hem, and their politics the seam. They were able to speak of themselves without boasting, without vanity, without the necessity or compulsion to surpass each other in courage, accomplishment, or supremacy.
“I defied a press gang….”
“I defied a mob at Charing Cross….”
“I joined a smuggling gang….”
“I was admitted into the company of freethinkers….”
“I lost my friends to the Crown and corrupted law….”
“I lost my friends to the same pair….”
“I watched my friend’s book burn at the gallows….”
“My uncle burned my books, or tossed them into the Thames….” “I helped my two best friends die on the gallows, to end their agony….” “I watched my friends perish at sea, and another die on the pillory….” “I remember seeing fireworks in London, and wishing I could stay there for the balance of my life….”
“I remember the fireworks at the celebration of the last peace, and thinking that I belonged in London, that metropolis of possibilities….” “Skelly’s last words to me were ‘This Briton will never be a slave’….” “I neglected to bow to the Duke of Cumberland, and would not apologize….”
“Your words may have condemned your friends at the King’s Bench….”
“But you copied out Hyperborea, and I envy you that crime….” Each man privately appreciated, in mounting stages, that the other had lived just as unique and glorious a life as had he himself. Each understood that the glory was a consequence, not a cause or a quest. But neither did they abjure this species of pride in their self-estimations, nor deny its presence in each other. Their divergent politics, within the span of a few hours, ebbed in importance to the role of a half-remembered pretext, smothered by tales of tragedy and heroism. Each was certain that the other’s politics was not the product of serendipitous book-learning or of a vacuous, illiterate meanness, but the expression of some unconquered element in his character. The words spoken by each of them were glittering, tantalizing clues to what moved them, and these words, each man dimly sensed, were faint overtures to the words each of them had vowed to find some day: Jack, in dedication to the memory of two hanged outlaws; Hugh, in dedication to the memory of a dying man who had ordered him to live.
“I remember Ranelagh Gardens, and the bookshops, and the Pool of London,” sighed Hugh at one point, as he gazed wistfully in the flames of
the library fireplace.
“I remember Ranelagh, too,” Jack said, “and St. Paul’s, and the theater Redmagne and I went to, and the incredible energy of the city.” He paused.
“And Westminster Bridge, a white gash of stone arcing from bank to bank. It was the first thing I noticed.”
Hugh smiled. “My father wrote me that a new bridge is to be thrown across the Thames, at Blackfriars. Our quarry may win a contract to provide some of the stone.”
Jack frowned. “I’ll never cross it or Westminster. If I ever returned to England, I would risk sharing the fate of my friends.”
Hugh nodded. “And if I returned, I do believe that my uncle would try to have me assassinated. I must wait until he is…gone.”
Jack rose from his chair to study a framed picture on one of the walls.
It was Hugh’s sketch of the members of the Society of the Pippin. “So,” he remarked, “that was Glorious Swain?”
“Yes,” Hugh said. “My elder brother — in spirit and mind, at least.” Jack glanced at his host. “I thought that of Redmagne, too.” He shook his head in amazement. “Both of them, unexpected discoveries. You rescued yours, and mine rescued me. We have so many things in common — sorrows, triumphs, places, our kinds of friends….” He laughed, and added, “And Captain Ramshaw and the Sparrowhawk. I came here on it as a felon, you as an exile.”
Hugh studied his guest for a moment. “As an exile,” he mused. “How true.” He paused. “And, we seem to have common enemies. It was Henoch Pannell who captured you, and ensured that your friends were executed in Falmouth, was it not?”
“Yes,” Jack said with new interest. “What of him?”
“He is now a member for Canovan. I have sparred with him, too. All in all, an unwholesome man. He is no friend of the colonies.” “I wouldn’t think he would be.” Jack frowned and sat down again.
“Canovan? That was Skelly’s old London borough.” He shook his head.
“So, he’s looted that, too. Well, Parliament is the right place for him.” Hugh picked up a silver coffee pot and gestured with it. Jack shook his head. Hugh poured himself another cup. “He is plumb, plump, and wily, thanks to an opportune marriage, good eating, and consorting with his ilk in the Commons. My uncle has drawn him into an alliance with Crispin Hillier, our own member, for the express purpose of controlling votes for keeping the colonies dependent, in addition to whatever other villainy the
Commons wishes to visit on England. If any man is capable of persuading Parliament to team the colonies in a common yoke, it is he. Sir Henoch is an effective speaker.” Then Hugh laughed. “No, no! Forgive me for overestimating him! I am certain there are better speakers than he for the job.” Jack packed another pipe and lit it. “Tell me how you came to encounter him.”
Hugh told him about the Bucklad House concert, his exchange with the M.P. outside St. Stephens, and the supper with his uncle.
Hours later, they talked about Hyperborea. Hugh held one of the two duodecimo volumes of the novel, and asked, “Was Romney Marsh, or Redmagne, anything like his hero, Drury Trantham?”
Jack looked pleasantly puzzled. “You know.… That question never before occurred to me. But, yes, he was much like his hero. Like him in many ways. Or rather, Trantham was much like Redmagne, but projected onto a more ideal and lively and fast-moving canvas.”
“Yes,” remarked Hugh. “But Redmagne’s own canvas is no less heroic or elevating than Drury Trantham’s.” He paused and stared into the darkness of one of the room’s corners. Their exchange had triggered the sudden memory of a moment he had experienced in Ranelagh Gardens, when he saw his own life as a series of canvases, lit by the light of innumerable fireworks. He looked noble, solemn, and joyous at the same time. Jack, surprised by his host’s abrupt silence, studied the face of his new friend, and saw these things. He thought: Your company is invigorating, Mr. Kenrick. You have caused me to remember painful, urgent, pressing things. But, somehow, your company lessens the sting of those memories. You are, somehow, a justification for all that I am and have done, apart from everything I am and have done.
They both heard a noise at the library door and turned to see it open.
Spears frowned. “Pardon me, sir,” he said, nodding to the window, “but it is your rising time.”
Jack and Hugh glanced out the window, and noticed the gray-black of the predawn light beyond it. Throughout the night, they had heard the ticking and chimes of the floor clock, but paid them no more attention than they had the crickets and tree frogs.
Jack Frake stayed long enough for breakfast, then mounted his horse for the ride back to Morland. In one of his saddlebags was a leather portfolio that contained many of his host’s essays and Pippin addresses, in addition to what few addresses Hugh was able to salvage from Glorious Swain’s garret in London years ago.
“Good day, to you, Mr. Kenrick,” said Jack, touching the edge of his hat. “Be seeing you, Mr. Frake,” Hugh said.
They did not bid each other goodbye. Jack Frake rode home at a trot, while Hugh Kenrick went back inside the great house and climbed the steps to his bedchamber, stopping only to instruct Spears to wake him in three hours.
Chapter 12: The Governor
“Lately,” said the gentleman, “I have been so befuddled by the demands of this office that this morning I consulted Dr. Johnson’s definition of Governor. Four of the five meanings he gives may, in ideal circumstances, be applied to my duties. But, in fact, I can neither steer a supreme direction, nor wield much authority, nor exercise my delegated power. I am neither pilot, nor regulator, nor manager.” The gentleman paused and leaned forward. “Dr. Johnson might have added a sixth definition of Governor, sir,” he added. “Something witty, on the order of his definition of oats. Exempli gratia, ‘A Punchinello who presumes to act for his absentee master.’”
“Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary is without peer. Yet, there are in it many definitions that could have benefited from less wit and more precision.”
“I cannot but agree with you, sir. In my quieter moments, I have annotated and enlarged on many of his entries, if not corrected them in part or in whole.” The gentleman shook his head and chuckled. “I am afraid that I have spoiled my copy of his opus! It is cluttered with my own emendatory marginalia!”
“Then it must be some relief to you that he hasn’t the power to hurl acerbic thunderbolts across the ocean in retaliation, your honor. I have it our reigning critic does not brook criticism.”
“Oh, no,” said the gentleman, shaking his head. “I don’t believe he would be so vindictive. I have heard that he is quite generous in regard to his own fallibility. He would very likely welcome correction.” He sighed. “Would that their lordships on the Board of Trade and the Privy Council were less offended and more lenient, in respect to my actions. They are not so friendly to enlightenment.” He paused and noticed his visitor’s empty glass. “Will you have another bumper of Armagnac, sir?”
Hugh Kenrick nodded and volunteered, as his host rose to fill his long-stemmed glass with Armagnac from a crystal decanter, “A Punchinello, your honor? I believe you underestimate the esteem in which many persons here hold you. I have heard little else but praise for your character and conduct.”
* * *
It was inevitable that Francis Fauquier, Esquire, Lieutenant-Governor of Virginia, would be informed of the permanent presence in the colony of a member of nobility. His secretary did not pass on to him all the letters addressed to his honor, but among those he did were several on the subject of Hugh Kenrick, Baron of Danvers. The Governor, finding the mental time to be curious about why such a person would refrain from announcing himself, instructed his secretary to compose for his signature an invitation to the newcomer to present himself at the Palace in Williamsburg so that His Majesty’s representative could at least pay his own courtesies. Many of the things said about the young man were profusely complimentary, while other statements made about him were quite disturbing. The Governor wished to judge for himself.
Fauquier, aged fifty-seven, an Anglicized Huguenot, was a Fellow of the Royal Society and a former director of the South Sea Company. His father had been a colleague of Isaac Newton’s at the Royal Mint and a director of the Bank of England. The Lieutenant-Governor arrived in June 1758 to assume his post. No one knew for certain why he was appointed. He was a friend of the Spanish-raiding George Anson, now First Lord of the Admiralty; it was said by some that he had lost his inherited fortune to the navigator over a game of cards and that the appointment was a means of escaping his creditors. Others assumed that it was a combination of factors: his friendship with George Montagu Dunk, the third Earl of Halifax and president of the Board of Trade; his popular pamphlet, published in 1755, on the ways and means of funding the new war and reducing the national debt; and his knowledge of commercial practices and law, all contributing to his name’s being put on the list of candidates for colonial Governorships.
He was a short man, with dark, avid eyes set in an oval face. A widow’s peak atop a broad forehead complemented a long nose. He was the most polished and urbane Governor the Crown had ever imposed on the Council and the House of Burgesses: widely read on many diverse subjects, able to read and write Latin and French; a musician; dabbler in science and economics, gracious; a consummate conversationalist; wickedly deft at cards; well-meaning; and increasingly torn between his duty to the Crown and a growing fondness for Virginia.
The burgesses liked and trusted him, chiefly because, outside of the purchase of two parcels of land in Williamsburg, he did not, as had his predecessors, evince the least interest in acquiring large tracts of uninhabited wilderness in the west; this absence of avarice lent substance to his sincerity, honesty, and devotion to his duties. The Council, composed largely of the wealthiest planters and landowners in the colony, and which acted as his advisory board, as a senate, and as the supreme court of the colony, liked him because he seemed to be what all twelve of them wished to be: independently wealthy and well-connected in the maze of colonial and imperial influence.
Hugh Kenrick received the Lieutenant-Governor’s invitation in late January 1760, and cursed silently when he read the brief missive. At the bottom were Fauquier’s signature and embossed imprint of the Great Seal of the colony. It was not an invitation he could ignore. He instructed Mr. Beecroft to compose a reply for his signature, stating that he would call on the Palace some time in February, before the next session of the General Assembly. In mid-February, he donned a heavy coat, secured a traveling bag to his saddle, and rode off through a light snowfall to the Hove Creek bridge and the road to Williamsburg.
Williamsburg was a larger town than was Caxton, and as neatly laid out. The sparse buildings of the College of William and Mary stood at one end of the Duke of Gloucester Street, the imposing, square-cornered Capitol at the other. In between these points, on both sides of the wide boulevard, stood a few dozen houses with their gardens, and shops, taverns and hostelries.
Hugh had followed the road from Caxton that let out near the college’s grounds, and he soon found himself on the boulevard. The hooves of his mount thumped leisurely on the street’s frozen mud as he made his way in the direction of the Capitol almost a mile away. He nodded or touched his hat in reply to the curious glances of some men and women who paused to watch him ride by.
Unlike Caxton, Williamsburg was a sleepy town, this capital of the richest and most populous of Great Britain’s colonies — a port that might have been, but for its dead-center location on high ground between two great rivers. But Hugh sensed that it was now girding itself for the opening of the General Assembly next month. Then there would be court days in the county courthouse, the arrival of plaintiffs and defendants and their attorneys, of farmers and artisans and entertainers, of planters and merchants to see that their bills were introduced and read in the House by their burgesses, of busy men who came to settle debts and acquire new ones, of idle gentlemen who came to be diverted by the theater, by other me
n’s daughters, by horse racing, card games, cock-fighting, and amusing company.
Drays and carts were pulled up before many of the shops and taverns, and men were unloading from them everything from bolts of cloth to sides of beef. Smoke gushed from the chimney of a smithy, and he heard the persistent, purposeful hammering of metal from that enterprise. He passed a cumbersome wagon laden with raw lumber, pulled by a team of oxen. From one of the houses he heard someone practicing on a violin, and from another a woman singing “Pretty Little Horses,” a lullaby his mother had sung to him long ago. Many of the shops and taverns sported modest signboards that winked at him as they rocked in the cold wind; they reminded him of the Strand in London. He rode as far as the Capitol, just to see the place that mattered so much in Virginia. He cocked his head in appreciation of its size and the simplicity of its lines; it was as grand an edifice as any in Philadelphia.
Also grand, he thought, was the Governor’s Palace midway down the boulevard, at the end of a long park. After arranging for a room at Raleigh Tavern and a stall for his mount, he walked the distance to the Palace. At the great iron gates, he presented his letter from Fauquier to a black footman, who in turn presented it to the housekeeper. This worthy man, when he read the letter, bid the unexpected but special guest to wait in a parlor to the right of the foyer. But Hugh declined, choosing to wait instead in the spacious, marble-floored hall.
The wheel of muskets fixed to the hall’s ceiling startled him. And everywhere he looked, he saw arms: pistols, swords, sabers, halberds, pikes, and more muskets, all arranged on the walls in some ominous effort at decoration. Directly opposite the entrance, above the arched portal that led to the inner sanctums of the Palace, were three half-furled banners: the Virginia Regimental, the Great Union, and the King’s Colors — crossed on polished mahogany staves, draped over a drum. The foyer alone, he concluded, was more impressive, and perhaps more intentionally intimidating, than was the whole of St. Stephen’s Chapel that was the House of Commons. When a secretary rushed in to escort him upstairs to the Governor’s office, Hugh inquired about the purpose of the arms.