by Edward Cline
The servant gasped and stared at him in growing, stupid recognition. He attempted to reply, but could only sputter unfinished words. The parcel he carried, something bulky wrapped in paper and string, slipped from his hand to the ground with a muted shatter of glass or porcelain. Curle’s glance darted down and he gasped again.
Hugh asked, “How is my uncle, Mr. Curle?”
The man blinked once and managed to stammer, “He is…fine… milord.” He glanced again at the parcel that lay at his feet, then back up at Hugh. “May…I inform his lordship that you enquired after his health…?” he asked tentatively.
“You may, at the risk of your own,” Hugh said. He studied the frightened, trembling man for a moment, then abruptly frowned, turned, and walked away. Although he felt nothing but contempt for the man, he suddenly realized that Curle was no longer worthy of any expression of that appraisal.
One afternoon he went to the city with letters he had written to Jack Frake, Etáin McRae, and Thomas Reisdale to give to Mr. Worley to put on the first colonial vessel to clear the Pool of London, then walked to Serjeants’ Inn to meet with Dogmael Jones. They talked politics and law over dinner, and then Jones took him to the reading room in the Middle Temple where the Pippins were tried years ago.
Jones raised his silver-tipped cane and swept it in a gesture to the chamber. “The place has a special significance for me, milord,” he said. “Here is where your friends were condemned to their fates, where I met my worst defeat, and where I began to follow a course that led me, ultimately, to a seat in the Commons.” He faced Hugh. “I might have followed another course and fruitlessly quenched my anger and despair in bottled spirits of progressively cheaper quality, but for a brief visit by you. For that little obtrusion, I am both grateful and in your debt.”
Hugh smiled at the barrister. “You may call me sir, or mister, Mr. Jones.”
Jones nodded in acknowledgment.
They spent the rest of the day visiting bookshops. Hugh found several copies of Blackstone’s Analysis of the Laws of England, while Jones recommended other learned disquisitions on the law and government by Samuel Puffendorf, Hugo Grotius, Robert Molesworth, and Emeric de Vattal. “The literature of liberty is vast, Mr. Kenrick,” remarked Jones as they carried Hugh’s purchases in a hackney to Lion Key and Mr. Worley’s warehouse, “as you undoubtedly know. Some of it is tedious, some of it is wrongheaded, and much of it peg-legged by its premises. But when it is right, it is glorious.” Hugh put his purchases in a special crate that Benjamin Worley had set aside for things his former protégé was taking back to Virginia with him. “When the Crown runs out its entire array of legal guns against Wilkes or a Pippin, the gun ports of liberty should snap open in answer, one after another, to reveal the primed barrels of Mr. Locke, Mr. Sidney, Mr. Harrington, and that whole potent armament of enlightenment. The order of fire should be commanded by a master gunner, such as Sir Charles Pratt — he has not had a last word on the matter of general warrants — and the vessel captained by Aristotle.”
Hugh laughed. “I wish I could be in the gallery of the Commons when you make your maiden speech, Mr. Jones.”
“I will send you transcripts of all my perorations.”
That evening the pair went to the Mitre Tavern for a light supper. The place reminded Hugh of the Fruit Wench. It consisted of a large front room with many tables and the bar, and a number of partitioned “rooms” in the rear that were occupied by private parties. “I come here often,” said Jones as he lit a pipe. “The patrons are a more homogenous and convivial sort, given to weightier conversation than the raucous commentary on the mundane and grosser aspects of life that one usually encounters in most other establishments. However, I do not as a rule participate in such conversation. I merely enjoy its proximity, of being in the company of men who bring some spark to their speculations. It reassures me that I dwell in a society not completely dominated by dolts, priests, and politicians.”
They sat at a table next to one of the partitioned sections, more to be able to hear each other speak in the hubbub than from fear of being overheard. Jones regaled his companion with anecdotes about the Commons. His remarks were humorous and condemnatory at the same time. Hugh felt invigorated by the man’s vitality and outspokenness. At one point in their conversation, the barrister declaimed against a schedule of things he would work for the repeal of, ending with the king’s civil list and secret service fund. “Nothing more encourages the preservation of a tepid, suffocating status quo than rewarding members for having helped perpetuate it. A vested and stubbornly inert personal interest is then acquired by them in such genteel corruption. They come to regard this lawful subornation as practical wisdom and entitling propriety.”
Hugh shook his head, not in denial of Jones’s points, but in frustration. “But, sir, do you truly believe that a corrupt Parliament can be a vehicle of reform for liberty? That body must first be thoroughly purged. Its members must be put above bribery by the government, private interests, and by those for whom oppression and slavery are ideal states of polity. It must be reformed to eschew all purposes but that of preserving liberty. The Commons, and even Lords, while they no longer are the servants of the Crown, instead must be bribed to accomplish the same quid pro quo. By your own account, many stalwart members of the Opposition regularly cross the floor upon being granted places by their enemies in the government.”
Jones frowned in thought, then cocked his head once in concession. “It is a harsh conundrum that you pose, sir, and I have not the answer to it. It must be solved by a sage, or by general disgust. My own disgust has not yet made me sagacious enough to solve it.”
They were aware of a lively discussion taking place in the private room beyond the thin partition. At that moment, a voice in that quarter bellowed loudly and distinctly enough for them to hear, “…If the abuse be enormous, nature will rise up, and claiming her original rights, overturn a corrupt political system!”
Both Hugh and Jones were startled by the words. Hugh remarked, “You were right about this place, Mr. Jones. I have not heard that sentiment even in Virginia.”
Jones chuckled and asked, “Overturn? Or sever all ties to it?” He shook his head. “I recognize that voice. It is Dr. Johnson’s. He and his friends come here oftener than do I. I have gained a greater understanding of my enemies by discreetly auditing his numerous and disjunctive pearls of thought, from this very table.”
“He spoke a truth, though,” remarked Hugh.
“So he did,” said Jones, “about that, and many other matters. But for how long will his pension permit him to speak his own mind, to proclaim errors of his own judgment, as well as truths?”
Chapter 21: The Voyage Home
Like any holiday crammed with endless leisure and cherished company, Hugh’s stay in England passed with a swiftness that caught him by surprise in late August. As September came nearer, his parents and sister began to regard him with expectant, wistful longing. With an odd melancholy of reluctance and anticipation, he found himself making brief, conscientious preparations for his voyage back to Virginia. He regretted neither having come, nor having to leave.
His only true disappointment was having to settle for a single afternoon with his friend, Roger Tallmadge, before the younger man departed the next day with a commercial envoy to Denmark, “to discuss the levies on our goods taken there, and other matters,” explained the lieutenant, “among them, the price of Baltic timber that Danish brokers sell to our Navy. The Admiralty think their fees are too high. As his secretary, I shall aid Mr. Everett in drafting reports of his negotiations to their lordships. A fine irony it is,” he remarked as they strolled along a path, “that an Army officer should be selected to assist an emissary of the Navy in his spelling and pointing.”
Lieutenant Roger Tallmadge conducted Hugh on a tour of the Woolwich artillery park and the practice range where gunnery officers, under his watchful and impartial eye, applied what they learned from classroom lectures.
/> Hugh chuckled and said, “Irony or no, Roger, you have done well for yourself. I would never have imagined it, but a military life seems to agree with you. You look splendid. Now we are both something.”
Roger grinned and stopped in his tracks. He bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment. Today, in honor of his guest, he was in the full dress uniform of a junior officer of the Grenadier Guards, from which he was detached to be an instructor at the Academy. The silver epaulettes on his scarlet coat flashed in the sun, as did the silver gorget at his throat. An immaculate red sash divided his spotless white breeches and waistcoat, and the black, polished, knee-length gaiters made him look taller. One hand rested on the pommel of the sword at his side; the other reached up and briefly doffed a silver-traced tricorn in a personal salute. “To hear those words from you, sir, means more to me than you might imagine — elder brother.”
His friend’s last words startled Hugh, and caused him to remember the man to whom he had addressed the same words, on a pillory at Charing Cross, long ago, followed by an almost effortless recollection of the comradely badinage between him and Roger as boys in Danvers, when he had granted Roger the privilege of being his younger brother. The associations startled him, and pleased him. He smiled and inclined his head.
They walked on. “Well,” Hugh said, “you do look splendid. I’ll wager you attract the attentions of many worthy ladies.”
Roger laughed. “And many more unworthy,” he said. “Whether in a tavern or a ballroom, if one is not trying to cadge a shilling from me for her rent, another is trying to wheedle me out of my half-pay for the price of a Fleet marriage, and I’m certain you know the ignominious fate of those intemperate unions.” He paused to sigh. “Women can be so…mercenary, I needn’t tell you. I sometimes believe that they are more predatory than are men.”
Hugh glanced at Roger. His friend had campaigned with the British army that was attached to Prince Ferdinand, and had seen action at Bergen, Warburg, and Minden, yet he saw no scars on him. His words, however, were evidence of another kind of wound. “Who was she?” asked Hugh.
Roger’s mouth creased in bitterness and he shook his head. “No one you knew, Hugh. I will spare you the details. I am trying to forget them myself.” This time, he glanced at Hugh. “Do you hear from Reverdy?”
Hugh shook his head in turn. “No. Nor she from me.”
“I see her now and then, when we both happen to be visiting our families in Danvers. I do not speak to her. I cannot forgive her for her treatment of you.”
Hugh’s reply was brief but brittle. “Do not trouble yourself about it, Roger,” he said. “I don’t.” And then his anger was gone.
Roger led him to the end of a line of cannon. The range was empty and quiet, except for the sound of crickets and faraway crows. “I make my ‘cadets’ form their own crews, so that they can know what to expect from the crews they will command,” he said. “Most of these officers resent that, at first, but I have received letters of appreciation from some.” He nodded with pride to another of his innovations, a line of “straw men” in the distance that represented an enemy formation. “I had a deuced time persuading the school to put that up,” he explained, “and of convincing them of my reasoning. The purpose of artillery being, chiefly, to prompt opposing troops to abandon their ranks and so skew a formation, and thus thwart a commanding officer’s tactics, intentions, and effective fire, I introduced the notion of scoring against an officer in training for smashing a bundle of straw, and in his favor for dropping a cannon ball in front of it and missing. Knocking a man down is the task of the firelock, that of a field gun of instilling in him the frightening prospect of being rearranged beyond the arts of surgery. A musket ball, at least, can be removed from him, provided it does not cause instant or certain death. A six- or eight-pound ball, however, will simply remove the man, and perhaps the man behind him, and continue on its terrifying way until its force is spent. And, firing a cannon ball expends almost as much powder as a regimental volley. But, every soldier knows the terror of a cannon ball, and fears the thing, and acts accordingly, whether he is English, French, Austrian, or Prussian. He will dart from the path of a bounding, hurtling orb of iron, no matter how many lashes on his bare back his sergeant has promised if he breaks ranks.” Roger swept a finger over the long, distant row of straw men. “One day, though, some fiendish mind will perfect the fuse and fashion exploding cannon balls, and that will be the end of infantry tactics, and even fortifications, at least as we know them. And, I fear that our army will be the last to appreciate that advance.”
Hugh studied his friend with admiration. The boy who had needed his protection and guidance was now a mature man, self-confident, certain of his capabilities and worth, and unafraid. Hugh was unaccountably proud of the way Roger had turned out. He said, “If you ever tire of the Army, Roger — or, if it tires of you — see my father. You might find the merchant’s business interesting. Mr. Worley would welcome the help. Then, there is Swire’s bank. I am sure that if you can calculate the arcs and distances of flying eight-pound balls, you can master interest rates and percentiles. I’ll speak with my father about it before I leave.”
“Thank you, Hugh,” said Roger. “I don’t expect either party to tire of the other, not in the foreseeable future, at least. But, I will keep your suggestions in mind.” He paused, then grinned. “Still the elder brother, looking out for me?”
Hugh laughed, and shrugged. “If you were a spendthrift, or one of those presumptuous fops I saw at the school back there who are your brother officers, no, I would have disowned you. But, I still feel like a brother to you, though I confess I also feel somewhat helpless, because I can no longer tell you what to do.”
Roger touched his friend’s arm, and with the gesture added, “And, I can now load and fire six volleys in a minute.”
The officer checked two mounts from the Woolwich stables, and the men rode down to Greenwich for supper in a tavern. “At dusk, we must part,” said Roger as they followed the road. “I must finish stuffing my kit this evening, and see to some school business. Tomorrow I take a packet to Great Yarmouth to await Mr. Everett and his party. From there, we sail to Copenhagen. I was informed that the mission will last perhaps three months. And you?”
“I will depart later this month, or early next, on the first vessel available. I hope to be in Virginia by late October.” Hugh paused. “Three months, versus the three years we may not meet again.”
“Who knows?” said Roger. “When my secretary’s task is completed, I will be asked to continue on at Woolwich. In the meantime, I could enquire about a posting to the colonies.”
Over their supper in Greenwich, they talked of their pasts, presents, and futures. And when they had made their final toasts to each other with glasses of ale, they rode back to Woolwich in the dusk. Hugh reclaimed his own mount from the stables, and leaned from the saddle to shake his friend’s hand. “Be well, Roger,” he said. “Write to me about Copenhagen and your duties there. Perhaps you will find a Danish beauty, and bring her back as a bride.”
Roger touched his hat in another salute. “Calm seas, Hugh, and a prosperous voyage. Be sure to write, so I’ll know that you’re safely home. Send your letters to my parents in Danvers. They will ensure that I get them, wherever the Army next posts me.”
With a touch of his own hat, Hugh pulled on the reins to turn his mount around, then trotted away. When he reached the Thames again near Greenwich, he turned west for the ferry that would take him back across the river.
* * *
Emery Westcott, the portrait artist commissioned years ago by the Kenricks to do the entire family, was brought in again to render Hugh for his parents. Hugh reciprocated by commissioning him to paint a group of his parents, sister, and principal servants in a domestic tableau. “The walls of my supper room are quite bare,” he told his mother. “Mr. Westcott’s skills will allow me to be with you and this household every evening. Besides,” he added in a mock confidential tone
, “this picture will also allow me to show you off to my friends.”
Effney Kenrick smiled a sad smile. “I’m so happy that you have friends there, Hugh.”
“Friends I have, Mother, and they are as close and fiery as Mr. Jones.”
Westcott completed both his tasks a week before Hugh was to leave for the Pool of London to await the clearance of a colonies-bound merchantman.
And when the week was past, the whole family rode to Mr. Worley’s offices at Lion Key. The agent had found Hugh a cabin on the family’s own Busy, which sat at anchor and in moorings at the Key and would be piloted back down the Thames the next morning.
The farewells were as emotional and wrenching as they were on the Weymouth dock five years earlier. Alice sobbed, Effney Kenrick cried, and the Baron managed to be nervously stolid. But this time they were able to board the vessel and see Hugh’s cabin, his home for perhaps the next two months, and the family was together until the early evening. The captain of the Busy, Thomas Rowland, had them in his own quarters for supper.
Hugh accompanied his family back down the gang-board to the Key wharf. Waiting for them there was Sir Dogmael Jones, who had been expected earlier. The barrister greeted the Baron and his family, and apologized for his lateness. He waited again while Hugh escorted the family to their chaise and gave them his last consoling assurances, then said, “I come to wish you bon voyage, sir, and to present you with a token of my esteem.” He gestured to the vessel with a leather satchel he was carrying. “May we talk in your cabin?”
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.”