by Edward Cline
These brief clashes were to ignite a fuse of events that would ultimately lead to the beginning of the Seven Years’ War, officially declared in May of 1756 and fought in theaters ranging from Europe to India. “The volley fired by a young Virginian in the backwoods of America set the world on fire,” wrote Horace Walpole. It was to be the last struggle between the French and British for hegemony in North America. Pelham’s death also signaled the rise of William Pitt, the Great Commoner, later Earl of Chatham, who would administer eventual victory.
Other events served to bridge the fuse and the actual explosion. Charles-Louis de Secondat, formerly Baron de Montesquieu, and intellectual stepfather to political theorist Edmund Burke, died in February, 1755. He was England’s favorite Frenchman, for he praised that country’s political institutions. The Dictionary of the English Language, compiled by critic, essayist, and poet Samuel Johnson, was published in April of that year, after a nine-year effort. Young Jean-Jacques Rousseau published his first major work, Discourse on Inequality. Francis Hutcheson’s System of Moral Philosophy, published posthumously that year, endorsed the tenets of David Hume’s earlier Treatise of Human Nature and Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding; these three works derogated reason and posited the supremacy of “passion” in human action and values, and helped to put a seal of respectability on the cynicism, skepticism, and “sentimentality” that were the age’s growing hallmarks. In Prussia, young Immanuel Kant published a paper on the formation of the solar system, proffering a theory that foreshadowed Pierre Laplace’s, but his true fame lay in the future, in philosophy, not science. His series of Critiques would together comprise a body of philosophy for which Hume’s and Hutcheson’s would rank as mere advance valets. In Russia, Moscow University was founded to educate the young nobles. And in Austria, young Franz Joseph Haydn was busy perfecting the format of the symphony. But France, even though it was more politically oppressive than England, and whose freethinkers were more at jeopardy—often at peril—than their brethren in liberal Albion, remained the intellectual fountainhead of Europe.
The year 1755 was riven by great earthquakes. Thousands died when Quito was leveled in April. Forty thousand souls perished that June in Kaschan, northern Persia. Lisbon would be destroyed in November and fifty thousand of its inhabitants lost. Málaga in Spain and Fez in Morocco would be flattened by the same eight-minute quake, whose shocks were felt as far away as Scotland.
Englishmen were stunned when news arrived in late August of Major General Edward Braddock’s death and defeat that July in Pennsylvania, not far from Great Meadows Run. Braddock, spending a small portion of the imperial treasury, was dispatched to accomplish what Washington, scantily paid and ill-supported by contentious colonial legislatures, could not: the capture of Fort Duquesne and the eviction of the French. It was especially galling for two reasons: first, that a force of nearly fifteen hundred regulars, supported by colonial militia, was defeated within shouting distance of Fort Duquesne by a much smaller force of very irregular French and Indians, who fought from behind trees and rocks; and second, the circulating rumors of the outrageous conduct of the British regulars, many of whom ran and even fired in panic on their own ranks. Almost a thousand English lives were lost to the victorious, nearly unscathed French and screaming, scalping Indians. Braddock was the first British general to campaign in North America. It was not an auspicious debut of British military prowess.
In England, and in the finer households in the colonies, gentlemen and ladies could not decide what was more contemptible: Was it the cowardice of the French, who in North America did not fight in the customary and honorable parade ground manner and tactics of Continental Europe, but behaved like cut-throats, footpads, and highwaymen? Or was it the disgraceful funk of the surviving regulars, who survived because they ran? Like many aristocrats in England who read accounts of the fiasco in the newspapers, the Earl and Baron of Danvers repeated in astonishment to each other, without knowing it, Braddock’s dying words: “Who would have thought of it?” Publicly, no one questioned Braddock’s generalship, even though, privately, some politicians and military men reflected that with a little imaginative daring—an asset not possessed by the late Edward Braddock—perhaps with a massed bayonet charge supported by merciless artillery, the French and Indians could have been swept from the woods, Fort Duquesne captured, the French evicted from the Ohio Valley, and, for all practical purposes, that theater of the Seven Years’ War closed. Publicly, no one questioned Braddock’s personal selection for the task by the Duke of Cumberland; privately, many who knew Cumberland said that he had picked his “peer in wit,” and so no better outcome could have been expected.
In ominous irony, two men associated with the debacle were colonials: Benjamin Franklin and George Washington. Franklin, ever the entrepreneur, had supplied Braddock with his wagons and horses; most of these were lost in the disaster, together with all the artillery, the commander’s papers, and ¢25,000 in specie. Franklin had, the previous spring, orchestrated the Albany Congress, sponsored by the Board of Trade in London, first to woo the Iroquois from the French—unsuccessfully, as it turned out—and then to study the feasibility of a union of the colonies as an official body that would complement Parliament and work with it for the good of all concerned. Many of the colonial legislatures vetoed the idea or would not even debate it. Franklin’s own Pennsylvania rejected the notion. The idea came to naught. It was considered much too radical a solution to the incipient friction between the colonies and the home government. But the conduct of the war, and the bill ultimately presented to the colonies by the Crown in the form of new taxes and regulations for its successful conclusion, would later precipitate congresses far less benign than the Albany, for many of the more astute colonials would begin to wonder for whose sake and benefit the war was being fought.
Colonel Washington, as a volunteer on Braddock’s staff, did his best to rally those regulars and colonials who did not panic. He rode from company to company, swearing as heartily as a drill sergeant over the din of volleys, his coat plucked to pieces by musket balls and two mounts shot from beneath him. Brave but foolhardy British officers and stalwart rank and file fell like ninepins around him during the two-hour fight. Washington was largely responsible for extracting the survivors—stalwart and scurrying alike—from the deadly ambuscade. He buried Braddock’s body in an unmarked grave to prevent its abuse by the Indians. Following his earlier surrender at Fort Necessity, it was his second humiliating defeat in a year. He did not know it, but the tonic of these bone-chilling experiences would serve to make him a wise and patient general in the decades to come.
* * *
The gravity of these events was lost on Hugh Kenrick. 1755 was an uneventful year for him, until his father called him into his study one late summer afternoon to inform him that he was to attend Dr. James Comyn’s School for Gentlemen, in London, near Westminster. Hugh was now fourteen.
Garnet Kenrick decided to entrust his son’s further education to this reputable academy for two reasons: to subject Hugh to a stricter regimen of study than the Tallmadge tutors could impose, with special emphasis on commerce, law, accounts, and mathematics; and to remove the boy from his uncle’s glowering displeasure. Whole seasons, he reasoned, would pass before Hugh returned home for the holidays, and the passage of time would serve to ameliorate his brother’s fuming hostility. Also, he wished to see Hugh avail himself of the freedom of a cosmopolitan city; he was curious to see what effect exposure to more demanding tutors and to life in London would have on his son’s burgeoning mind.
He grinned wryly when, after he broke the news, Hugh’s eyes lit up in excitement. “Dr. Comyn was a classmate of mine at Oxford,” he explained. “I have seen him recently and exchanged several letters with him about you. He is much impressed with your abilities, and is eager to make your acquaintance.” The Baron paused. “You must promise me that you will do nothing that would bring disgrace to this family. The city is rich in temptations and distr
actions.”
“I promise,” replied Hugh.
“Your mother and I will accompany you and see that you are installed in our house. We will travel early in September and partake of the fall society for a week or so. When we leave, Mr. Worley will be responsible for you. Hulton will valet for you. You will spend time at Mr. Worley’s business, working with his clerks and, well, as you once desired, getting your hands dirty in all sorts of chores. And you will breakfast and dine with him and his family more often than you will at our house there.”
“What subjects will I encounter?” asked Hugh.
“More Latin and Greek, of course. Fencing—you are adept at the art, so Mr. Tallmadge’s master tells me, but Dr. Comyn has the instructor in his employ who taught that same tutor. Dancing—you are deficient in that art, but, again, Dr. Comyn has an excellent master at hand. French—that will cost me extra, but I believe you will profit from strict lessons. Drawing, merchants accounts, mathematics, Euclid, algebra, Roman and Greek history, modern history, Milton, Pope, geography, an introduction to navigation—well, quite a busy curriculum, Hugh. You will be occupied.” The Baron paused. “The school is within walking distance of the house. About fifty other boys—mostly sons of gentry—also attend.” The Baron paused. “It is not Eton, nor Harrow. It is a school, I believe, that will be more to your liking.”
* * *
To Roger Tallmadge, during a noon-time break from instruction, Hugh said, “I am going to London, to attend an academy.”
Roger looked dismayed, almost desolate. “What good luck!” he said instead. “When do you leave?”
“Next month. I shall come home for Christmas and Twelfth Night.”
“It must be very expensive.”
“My father says almost twenty guineas a year. It would be more if I boarded at the school itself.”
“We went to London once, but it was mostly to see father’s associates.”
“I’ll write you about the things I do and see.”
“Yes! Tell me about the menagerie at the Tower. I’ve heard it has an elephant and a tiger. And then there’s London Bridge! And the king!”
“And Westminster Bridge. I’ve heard it is a beautiful thing to see. And the Observatory.”
The boys walked silently for a while. Then Roger said, “Father says there is to be another war with the French and the Prussians. My brother Francis wants Father to get him into the army.”
Hugh chuckled. “That would be a good place for Francis. He is not a diligent student. Perhaps the army will instill a quantum of wisdom in him.”
“You would make a wonderful officer, Hugh.”
Hugh laughed. “I don’t think the army would welcome me, no matter how much my father paid for a commission.”
“I would like to try the army, just to see what it’s like. Did you know that the Duke of Cumberland had his own company of boys to command when he was only ten? And he’s an authority on all the armies’ uniforms and customs and battles.”
To this, Hugh had nothing to say. He was deep in thought.
They stopped by a birch tree on the outskirts of the landscaped grounds. Beyond were the green, hedged planes of the Tallmadge pastures. Roger looked at the ground. “I will miss you, Hugh.”
“And I, you. You are my only friend.”
“And you, mine.”
They shook hands.
The next day, to Reverdy Brune, after dancing class, Hugh said, “I am going to London, to attend an academy.” They walked alone on a path between some hedges in the Brunes’ landscaped grounds. The girl was wearing a white cotton dress, and a straw hat tied to her raven-black hair with a red ribbon.
The regret in his words did not escape the girl’s notice. “I am very happy for you,” she said with feigned indifference.
“I will miss you,” he said.
Reverdy Brune did not reply, but his words momentarily disturbed the composure of her face.
This did not escape Hugh. He grinned. “And you will miss me. I know that you will not permit yourself to say it, because so young a lady may not confess such thoughts.”
“I am not a lady,” she protested. “I am the daughter of a mere squire.”
“You are a lady,” said Hugh. “Here. I shall prove it.” He took one of her gloved hands, raised it to his lips, and kissed it.
Reverdy jerked her hand away. “You are very presumptuous, Hugh Kenrick. Everyone says so.”
“It is no vice to be presumptuous,” replied Hugh gaily. “It is a foundation of civil society.”
“You are mocking me.”
“I like to see you frown.”
“A frown is a sign of agitation.”
Hugh shrugged. “Or of thought, or of anger, or of purpose…or of character.” Hugh smiled and studied the girl’s face in detail. The girl blushed under his scrutiny. “I am picturing you as you will be the next I see you, Reverdy. You will be a little taller, and your features a little sharper.”
The girl turned away. “You needn’t boast just because a famous artist has done you a picture. Father is hiring another artist to do ours.”
“Will he do one of you alone?”
“Yes,” she said proudly.
“I should like to have a picture of you.”
“Father would not approve of that—and he certainly would not pay for it.”
Hugh reached into his coat pocket and took out a golden guinea. He handed it to the girl. “Here. Give this secretly to your artist. Tell him that you wish to make a surprise present of a miniature to your father. Swear him to secrecy. I shall expect to see you in a fine locket when I return for the holidays.”
Reverdy Brune smiled with delight at the intrigue, then took the coin and slipped it into her other gloved hand. They sat down on a stone bench in a bower. She said, “You would think we were going to be married, Hugh Kenrick, the way you carry on.”
It was a superfluous comment. It was known by both of them that their parents desired such a marriage. The Brunes wished to marry into nobility, and the Kenricks wished to acquire some interest in the Brunes’ lands. More words had been exchanged between the sets of parents on the subject than by the subjects of the arrangement.
Reverdy abruptly looked straight at Hugh. She said, with some concern in her words, “Father says at the table that there may be a war.”
“That is the talk in our house, too.”
“Do you think your father will purchase you a commission in the army, or get you a place as a midshipman in the navy?”
Hugh shook his head. “No. He says I would do better reading the French, instead of fighting them. I agree with him.”
“Father says that General Braddock’s death should be avenged, and our country’s honor restored.” The girl paused. “It would be marvelous if you had a part in those things.”
Hugh shook his head. “My father says Braddock was a martinet and a fool who would not listen to the colonials about how to fight the French there. Our country’s honor?” He looked pensive for a moment, then shrugged. “I must first establish my own honor, before I devote concern to my country’s.”
“How selfish of you, Hugh Kenrick!” exclaimed the girl.
“I do not deny it,” he replied.
“You are shameless!”
“I have nothing to be ashamed of, least of all my honor.”
Reverdy Brune tapped one of her shoes in impatience.
Hugh grinned. “Have you any other sins to accuse me of, Reverdy? I shall admit to those, too.”
“You are mocking me again.”
“I believe that you enjoy being mocked—by me.”
Reverdy turned to face him, and she blinked at the laughter in his eyes. “And now you are showing conceit,” she said.
“Is it conceit that you mean, or self-assurance? If it is conceit, then you underestimate me, Reverdy, and I will be disappointed. If you mean self-assurance, then that is something you should cherish in a man, as a man should cherish it in a woman.” He reached o
ver and took one of her hands from her lap. “I know that you feign humility to hide your own self-assurance. You will tell me some day, when you are able to, why you should wish to mask so alluring a virtue.” Then he raised her hand and kissed it again.
Reverdy Brune smiled in wonder at this observation, and forgot to withdraw her hand.
Chapter 11: The City
IN THE FIRST WEEK OF SEPTEMBER, THE KENRICKS BOARDED A CHARTERED packet at Swanage, sailed to Dover, and there hired a coach to London. The coach reached the city two days later, crossed Westminster Bridge, and deposited them at Windridge Court, the name of the Earl’s wall-enclosed, terraced residence on the Thames near the York Stairs, only a few doors downriver from the palatial residence of the Duke of Richmond.
The London that Hugh Kenrick saw every day from the carriage that he shared with his father, mother, sister, and uncle on its way to and from concerts, outings, and social engagements in the following three weeks was not his London. His London did not include the mountainous heaps of rubbish sitting in the streets, nor the streets obstructed by vendors’ sheds and stalls and the crowds drawn to them. It did not include the invasion of the thoroughfares by new houses, whose broad stone steps jutted abruptly into the course of wheeled traffic, often causing congestion and public disorder. It did not count the shells of ruined houses and sagging, windowless tenements in the worst districts, nor the mobs of ragged citizenry outside of them, and who called the shells and tenements home. It did not subsume the broken pavements and the small lakes of sewage that gathered in their depressions, nor the rotting hulks of expired horses, fed on by packs of wild dogs. It discounted the cacophony of street vendors hawking their wares and services, and shut its ears to the horns, drums, and calls of tradesmen and the general deluge of profanity. It did not countenance the teams of alert, feral thieves, pickpockets, and cutpurses, who would strike at the unwary or the careless propertied man or woman and vanish into the crowds with their booty: wigs, swords, purses, watches, lace cuffs, bonnets, silver buttons. It did not take cognizance of the innumerable, anonymous figures of men—and some women—propped up against or lying alongside the grimy brick and stone walls of dark alleys, some of them groggy with gin or opium, some unconscious and bleeding from a brutal robbery or assault, and some dead from starvation, bad liquor, exhaustion, or murder. It was not the London of the countless pairs of eyes that followed the rumbling passage of liveried carriages through disreputable neighborhoods with envy, hatred, larcenous intent, or, occasionally, with innocent wonder or wistful hope.