Hugh Kenrick

by Edward Cline

  Swain exchanged nods with a florid-faced woman behind an elevated bar. “Your friends ain’t showed up yet, luv. Find a table and I’ll send Tim over with a tankard. One for your friend, too?”

  Swain nodded again. “Thank you, Mabel.” He handed her a couple of coins. They found a small table in a far corner. A boy in an apron followed them shortly with two tankards of ale. As he sipped his drink, Hugh surveyed the lively, noisy scene with wonder.

  “First time in a tavern?” asked Swain.

  “Yes. It is quite a riot of life, isn’t it?”

  “Too much so, at times,” remarked Swain. He gestured to the scabbardless sword Hugh had carried under his arm from Rooker Alley. “I perceive a coat-of-arms there, sir. Do you know whose it is?”

  Hugh glanced once at the sword, which he had propped up against the wall. “It is the Bilbury arms, sir. You were assaulted by the Marquis.”

  “How do you know that the weapon was not stolen by that Mohock?”

  “I did not recognize the coat-of-arms, sir. I recognized the man. I have trafficked with him in the past. He is older, but no wiser.”

  Swain took a swig from his tankard, then said with hesitation, “Sir, I am familiar with the name of Kenrick. Are you a relation of the Earl of Danvers? I must confess that your Whitehall address caused me to suspect the possibility.”

  “I am his nephew, and the son of the Baron of same.”

  “I see,” replied Swain. “Which would make you…” The man sat up stiffly, and pushed his tankard away. “Milord, forgive me if I spoke out of turn, and—”

  Hugh rushed to protest. “No, no! I beg you to speak on the same terms, sir! Spare me the delicate addresses! Speak to me as from man to man! Think of me in those terms! I will be offended if you do not! I wish to be regarded in that manner, as a commoner, valued for his virtues, despised for his vices!”

  Swain sat back, startled by the outburst. “If that is your wish…sir,” he said, “I will comply with it. However, I will point out that, even though you may eschew your rank, or even renounce it for all time, you will never be a commoner. Your virtues are not common, and your honor and pride, I am certain, are the sibling offspring of uncommon effort. You have my esteem, for all that, sir.”

  “And you, mine,” answered Hugh. He raised his tankard. “A toast to ourselves and our friendship, in keeping with the spirit of this place!”

  Swain smiled and raised his tankard to touch Hugh’s, and they each drank a draught.

  A moment of silence passed. Then Hugh asked, “How did you discover Hyperborea?”

  Swain chuckled. “When it appeared years ago, foul reviews of it ran in many newspapers here, including the Evening Post, the Daily Auditor, and theRegister. No one seemed to like it, but there was a universal, peculiarly dehortative ring in all the commentaries. This was a natural invitation to me to purchase a copy of that book. So disliked a novel deserved a fair reading.” Swain paused. “But before we discuss that work, sir, tell me which play I owe my health to.”

  “Jonathan Wild,” answered Hugh. He waved a hand in dismissal. “But I do not recommend it. It is a mere patchwork of incidents, loosely sewn together. It would have been dull even had it been well done, which it was not.”

  Swain grinned. “I must confess that I have seen it, too, and concur with your estimate of it.”

  The two then began an animated discussion of Hyperborea, exchanging with excitement descriptions of their favorite characters, scenes, and passages. The glow of a shared, vital concern dulled their awareness of the tavern and its intrusive hubbub. They had reentered the world of Drury Trantham, a starkly clean literary sanctuary uncomplicated by the mundane, the sordid, and the contemptible. At one point, Hugh remarked, “The first time I read it, I became so fond of Trantham, I was angry with Mr. Marsh, the author. How could he send his hero to the bottom like that, and end all possibility of further adventures!”

  “That was my foremost reaction, too,” said Swain. “For a while, I could not forgive Mr. Marsh.”

  “And then I thought: It doesn’t matter. He died as he had lived. He died for something of his own, just as he had lived for something of his own. There was just enough incident in the novel to make him unforgettable. More would have been superfluous.”

  “That was my conclusion, too!” chuckled Swain. The man was almost beside himself with joy. “And your anger with the author in time grew to be love of the work?”

  “And the highest esteem for the author,” concurred Hugh. “Yes. Perhaps what he was saying was, ‘Here is my hero; he lives, he conquers, he dies. He is mine to give to you, and mine to take away. As you cherish him, so cherish yourself, and he will never pass from your life…’”

  “Oh, what a thought to cling to!” cried Swain. “I wish I had said it!”

  But Hugh did not hear Swain’s exclamation. He was lost in the corona of ineluctable truth of his own statement, and struck by the fact that he was its origin. He was unable to distinguish between the truth and the fact. He looked dumbly at Swain across the table, newly aware of facets of himself he had never before had reason to contemplate. He felt weightless.

  Glorious Swain knew, at that moment, that he was no longer enjoying the company of a precocious adolescent. He knew that he was looking at the frown of a man in the efflorescent throes of discovering himself. He had personal knowledge of the phenomenon. Until now, he had not witnessed it in anyone else.

  Hugh noted that his silent companion was staring at him with an odd intensity, and that he was smiling. At this moment, their friendship was sealed.

  “Ti neon ep’astu, Muir?” inquired a voice.

  Hugh and Swain glanced up at a figure that loomed above their heads. It was a tall, scholarly looking man who, however, wore a suit of clothes almost as ostentatious as those sported by the Mohocks. He carried a lacquered rosewood cane with a silver knob. Hugh was intrigued by the stranger’s question, which was ancient Greek for “What’s new in the city?” It also intrigued him that he had clearly addressed Swain, and called him “Muir.” The stranger nodded to Hugh in silent but suspicious greeting.

  “My new friend here, Mathius,” answered Swain. “He rescued me from a gang of Mohocks. Good evening.”

  Mathius turned again and bestowed a smile on Hugh. Then he said to Swain, “We are ready, Muir. The meeting awaits your arrival to convene. You are this evening’s chairman.” He held out the cane, and Swain took it. “Give me a moment to bid a civil farewell to my friend,” he said. “I will join you and the others shortly.”

  The stranger nodded, turned, and made his way through the crowd to the rear of the tavern.

  Hugh thought it curious that the man had not introduced himself, and that Swain had not attempted to make introductions.

  Swain saw the confusion on Hugh’s face. He asked, “Have you ever heard of the Society of the Pippin?”

  “No,” replied Hugh. “It is something ‘new in the city’—at least it is for me.”

  “Good. That means that our secret is still a secret.” Swain paused. “It is a club of intellects, of eccentrics, of men of letters. We meet twice a month to talk, to debate, to discuss, to enlighten each other. There are many such clubs in the city, as you may well know, but our society is unique. None of us knows the others’ true names or professions. We are the second generation of the Pippin. The tradition of anonymity is useful; it protects us from betrayal or discovery. In the Society, I am Muir, brother of Maia.”

  “May I join?” asked Hugh eagerly. “What must I do?”

  “The membership is limited to seven,” said Swain, shaking his head. “Each of us has adopted the name of one of the seven brothers of the seven daughters of Atlas. However—I shall broach the subject of your membership with the others. I believe you would be a worthy addition. But I cannot guarantee admission.” Swain rose and offered his hand.

  Hugh rose also and shook it. “But—how shall we meet again?” he asked.

  “I will leave a message
at your residence,” said Swain. “You see, many times I have sold a stone of tea to your house, and miscellaneous wares to your servants.” He bowed gravely. “Until next time, my friend.” Swain turned and hurried from the table.

  As Hugh watched him disappear into the crowd and smoke and turn to ascend some bannistered stairs to the floor above, it occurred to him that Atlas did not have seven sons.

  * * *

  It was only when he was sitting at the window of his room that night, lost in thought, watching the moving light of a waterman’s boat glide down the Thames, that Hugh felt his hands shaking. He held them up and studied them, as though they did not belong to him. It must be bellator tremens, he mused, the force of yesterday’s Latin lesson surfacing in his mind: warrior’s fear. Postmodum quod eventus, he thought with a smile at the irony. It had waited until long after his encounter with Glorious Swain. He had not felt this reaction at all after facing and routing the bullies at school. Then, he had insisted on a duel to the death. Yet, tonight, he had put himself in mortal danger, fighting a man to a probable death—but had spared his opponent’s life. And he was not certain that if he had had to fight the bullies, he would have killed at least one of them.

  What had been the difference? he asked himself. Was it the physical peril? Fighting the Marquis was an act of mere bravery. The bullies’ purpose, however, had been to subdue him, body and soul. To make his entire being submit to the fact of their wishes, to place themselves in the scheme of his concerns, like a team of runaway lorry horses that could turn in his direction at any moment and trample him to death.

  Yes, thought Hugh: I would have fought them to the death. I may sometime meet a brute more skilled with the sword than I, and he may conquer my body. But the bullies’ purpose was more insidious than that of any Mohock or highwayman, and if I am to remain the man I am, I shall never allow that purpose to be accomplished.

  Chapter 16: The Member for Canovan

  “IT HAS BEEN HEARD IN THIS ASSEMBLY ON A NUMBER OF OCCASIONS that the colonials are unhappy with the means with which this coming war is to be paid for and prosecuted. Oh, how they grumble, those rustical Harries! The means, as we all know, and as they rightly fear, must in the end come out of their own rough, bucolic purses. To my mind, that is but a logical expectation. Yet you would think, to judge by some of the protestations that have reached our ears, that the Crown was proposing to engage the French over Madagascar for possession of that pirates’ nest, and obliging them to pay the costs of an adventure far removed from their concerns. But—the threat is to their own lives, their own homes and families, their fields, their shops, their seaports, their own livelihoods, and they higgle and haggle over the burden of expense! A very strange state of mind indeed!” The speaker looked around him at his listeners, and smiled. He had their attention. His subject was novel. He turned and again addressed the Speaker of the House, as the rules required him to do. “I am merely a messenger, sirs. Do not entertain thoughts of murdering me for what I have said, or am about to say.”

  The colonials were, in fact, on the minds of many of his listeners, though not in the manner that was being presented to them. The rapid train of events concerning France threatened a new war. Because of a flurry of diplomatic moves, some believed there would be no war. Others were disquieted; they were afraid that the Newcastle government was not moving quickly enough to prepare for one. The speaker was certain of war—which would not be declared until the following May—but was concerned with aspects of it which he believed were being overlooked by all.

  “And, no doubt, many of these same said colonials will pay with their own skins, too. However, if the reports of officers in His Majesty’s service in the colonies in the past are to be warranted—and I don’t for a minute doubt the substance of their complaints or the truth of their anecdotes—not many colonial skins will be cut by French bayonet or bruised by Indian war club. The colonials, it is commonly said, are uniformly lazy, undisciplined, contentious, quarrelsome, niggardly, presumptuous, and cowardly, among themselves as well as among our brave officers and troops! It is thought by many in high and middling places that if the colonial auxiliaries under General Braddock’s command had been more forthright and daring with their musketry in that fatal wood near the Ohio, that brave and enterprising officer would be sitting in this very chamber today to receive our thanks, and not buried in some ignominious patch of mud in the wilderness. But—the colonial temperament is a matter of record. Our colonials! Scullions all, the sons of convicts, whores, and malcontents! From the greedy gentry of the northern parts, to the posturing macaronis of the southern, every man Jack of them unmindful of the fact that he is a colonial, a mere plant nurtured in exotic soil for the benefit of this nation! Oh! How ungrateful, our Britannic flora!”

  Many of the listeners cheered or stamped their feet in agreement. The speaker seemed to pace up and down before them, his stocky frame swaggering a little, as though he were a popular pugilist basking in the acclaim of spectators before the match had even begun.

  The hall, only a little larger than a ballroom, was packed with hundreds of cramped, restless men seated on long benches. It was on the second floor of a drab, mongrel-looking building which, but for the two turrets over its roof, could have been taken for one of the warehouses directly across the Thames from it. It was known as St. Stephen’s Chapel. The hall was a stark cavern, with oak wainscoting darkened by generations of candle soot, lit by a handful of inadequate windows, several dozen sconces, and a great chandelier. There were no paintings, tapestries, or banners to mark the hall’s importance, only an ornate, elevated chair in the aisle that divided the rows of benches, on which sat a man in a black cloak, a great white whig, and a black tricorn, and a raised, covered table before him, at which sat two black-cloaked clerks and other functionaries. On the table lay a mass of paperwork. A great gilt scepter, or ceremonial mace, usually rested on that table, too, but the House had been resolved into a Committee of the Whole House; the rules required that the mace be placed under the table when the House was not sitting in a formal session.

  This was the House of Commons. The man on the throne was Arthur Onslow, Speaker since 1728 and for another six years, and also member for Guildford. The orator was Sir Henoch Pannell, Baronet of Marsden, and member for the borough of Canovan.

  The opposing rows of benches were of four tiers each, and above them were long balconies supported by iron Corinthian pillars. These were the public galleries, and both were today packed with spectators. Not only was the new war to be discussed, but this was one of the first sessions of a Parliament that, thanks to the Septennial Act of 1716, would sit for the next seven years.

  Among the spectators was Hugh Kenrick, who had a front-row seat. He was leaned forward, arms crossed over the wooden railing, listening intently to the speaker. Today was a school holiday, and he had decided, out of sheer curiosity, to come here to audit the event. A week had passed, and he had received no word from Glorious Swain.

  Sir Henoch waited for the commotion to subside, then went on. “Yes! Ungrateful, their noggins emboldened by a few leagues of water!” He placed his arms akimbo and looked thoughtful. “Now, it is thought here in this hall, and in London, and in all of England, and even in Wales and Scotland, that His Majesty’s government—we here, within these ancient walls, and they across the way, in Lords”—with these words, he raised a finger and vaguely indicated another building just south of the Chapel, pronouncing the words in a slyly mocking tone—“are the corporate lawgiver and defender of our excellent constitution. Why, the most ignoble knife-grinder and blasphemous fishwife would be able to tell you that! Yet—” here Sir Henoch raised the same finger in the air—“proposals for new laws, or for the repeal of old ones, or for changes in existing statutes from colonial legislatures—those self-important congresses of coggers, costermongers, and cork farmers—arrive by the bulging barrelful on nearly every merchant vessel that drops anchor at Custom House. These proposals are dutifully conveyed
by liveried but sweaty porters to the Privy Council and the Board of Trade, to the Admiralty and the Surveyor-General and the Commissioner of Customs.”

  Sir Henoch placed a hand over his heart. “I am not friend to many members of those august bodies, but they truly have my sympathies, for they have the thankless task of sorting through those mountains of malign missives to segregate the specious from the serious. Many of these pleadings and addresses are shot through with a constant harping on the rights of the colonials as Englishmen, and so on with that kind of blather, like a one-tune hurdy-gurdy, a tiresome thing to endure, as many of you can attest. Virginia and Massachusetts are particularly monotonous and noisome in this respect. The planters would like to sell their weed directly to Spain or Holland, without the benefit of our lawful brokerage, while the Boston felt factors wish to fashion their own hats for sale there—or here!—without the material ever crossing the sea to be knocked together by our own artists. Well, sirs! We must needs remind our distant brethren that we are busy bees, too, and that the rights of Englishmen are only as good as the laws we enact allow—here, as well as there!”

  These last words were accompanied by emphatic stabbings of his finger at the floor, and then vaguely at the west. Again the House exploded with cheering and stamping. Sir Henoch’s eyes swept the length of both benches, then he let his sight rise to the galleries to gauge the response from that quarter. There were no hatters in Canovan, but allies of his on the benches had arranged for several dozen of them from other parts of London to come today to hear his speechmaking. He saw many men up there shaking their fists and shouting things he could not hear for all the din. Several of the men, he presumed, must also represent the tobacco trades, and the pin-makers, and the cobblers, and other trades dependent on colonial material. Hirelings, he thought with contempt. Bought for a shilling, sold for a pound!