by Edward Cline
Jefferson did not contest the proposition; nor did he deny its possibility. He took a sip of his ale, then asked, “Do you remember the first time we met and talked, outside the Palace, during one of Mr. Fauquier’s concerts? It seems so long ago, in another age! We have both matured, in some respects, but are still as young. I cannot account for the phenomenon, but we are imbued with some constancy. Perhaps it is an ambition to remain unaffected by men and events, to preserve the blameless youth of our souls.” And they talked for a while about matters other than politics.
Peyton Randolph had recently returned from Philadelphia to serve as Speaker. He had been elected president of the Congress in Philadelphia, but resigned that position upon receiving word of the new General Assembly. John Hancock was elected to succeed him. Randolph was not present at the Congress when, on May 29, it voted to send addresses to the inhabitants of Canada, the Floridas, and the British West Indies, asking them to join in the resistance. He would probably have frowned on such an action. He had hastened back to Williamsburg to ensure that Virginia did nothing rash to incur further Crown displeasure. And, he had the contradictory task of ensuring that Virginia did nothing that would put it at odds with the Congress. At the insistence of some burgesses and Council members, he agreed to put Lord North’s Olive Branch proposals on the agenda for debate at the House’s leisure.
The House worked steadily on desultory matters carried over from the last session, when, in the early hours of June 5, an incident occurred that obviated for a few days concerns for mundane legislative business. Fearing that the Governor would expropriate the arms in the Magazine, as well, several young local men broke into the building, and were greeted by musket fire. The place had been booby-trapped with trip wires leading to spring-guns. Residents awakened by the noise rushed to the Magazine to find the young men injured. It was immediately assumed that the Governor was behind the scheme.
The incident commanded the attention of the House when it convened later that morning. As the members voted to create a committee to investigate the crime, townsmen raided the Magazine and made off with the remaining gunpowder and hundreds of weapons, ostensively to better arm the militia.
After acrimonious exchanges of blame between the House and Dunmore over responsibility for the booby-trap, it was determined that the marines who took the powder in April had rigged the devices. If true, no one doubted on whose order the marines had acted. But officials and the keeper of the Magazine had entered the structure before June 5, and neither encountered nor observed spring-guns. Nor did this observation exonerate the Governor from his suspected responsibility.
On the following Wednesday, after paying Peyton Randolph an evening social call, Governor Dunmore, again resorting to the cloak of darkness while the town was asleep, loaded his family onto carriages, and rode to Yorktown to move in with them aboard the Fowey anchored there. The burgesses did not learn of this stealthy action until well into the morning. As the House prepared to send another delegation to the Palace, a messenger appeared with a letter from the Governor advising it that he and his family had removed to the warship out of concern for “the blind and unmeasurable fury” of his subjects. If the House had any business for him, he could be found on the Fowey.
Hugh Kenrick merely shrugged at the news, and remarked to another burgess, “It is a singularly appropriate venue for him.”
The Governor’s Palace was, for all practical purposes, now abandoned. Many of its indentured servants fled through the Palace Park in the rear to Porto Bello, Dunmore’s lodge on the York. Most of his one hundred and fifty slaves vanished. Townsmen thronged to the unguarded Palace and entered it, most for the first time. They were quite astonished with how lavishly their former Governor lived, and with the enormity of his wealth. They also noted that at every door was a stand of muskets, primed and ready to fire — on them, in the event they tried to storm the place. Most of the visitors realized that these preparations were a measure of the Governor’s hostile and condescending regard of them.
Hugh Kenrick joined a group of burgesses who took time out from the House to walk through the Palace. He had many fond memories of the place, and some sour, such as coming here years ago to plead with Lieutenant-Governor Fauquier for Wendel Barret’s printing license.
“Look at all our taxes!” exclaimed one of the burgesses, who had never been invited to the Palace. They were standing in the foyer, looking into the generously stocked pantry. The burgess was pointing to a pile of fine tableware. “Why, that punchbowl, and that tea service there! Why, the price one could fetch for either one could probably keep me, my staff and my servants in stomach and style for a year, at least!”
Hugh smiled in agreement, then said, not managing to suppress the bitter anger in his words, “Do you not all concede that it seems pointless to wait on the Governor on a warship, sirs?” He paused to gesture at the foyer. “Is this not evidence that he has abdicated, and is no longer our Governor? A deposed one, if you will allow it? Is not empty, habitual formality governing the substance and direction of our situation? Why do we continue to pamper him by maintaining the charade?”
Some burgesses grunted noncommittal affirmation to his questions. Others glanced at him sharply with resentment, as though he had scolded them for an oversight they did not care to acknowledge. One burgess braved a petulant reply, “Because he still possesses the Seal of Virginia, sir, and that makes him governor still and it commands our respect and fealty.”
Hugh turned on this man and wagged a finger at him. “That Seal is now an empty symbol, sir! And how do we know that His Excellency has not emulated James the Second, who tossed the Great Seal into the Thames upon his flight from London? How do we know that His Excellency has not tossed our Seal into the York, in a similar demonstration of spite and malice?”
The other burgess had nothing to say in reply.
Four days after Dunmore moved his office and quarters to the Fowey, the House resolved itself into a Committee of the Whole and took up the matter of Lord North’s Olive Branch proposals. Edgar Cullis kept his promise, and argued that Lord North’s proposals were a gesture of friendship, affection, and charity, and that their rejection would amount to criminal ingratitude. “It is hoped,” he concluded, “that this House will reciprocate him in these very sentiments in conformity to its noble purpose.”
By chance, Cullis had taken a seat next to Hugh. Hugh turned to him and remarked, “A fine speech, sir, one worthy of the ear of the Commons.”
Cullis’s face reddened, but he managed to reply, “I shall treat that as a compliment, sir.”
Jefferson rose to speak, and in a cool, dismissive manner said the proposals merely changed the mode of taxation and ignored the burdensome Acts, and should not be taken seriously. And after other burgesses had spoken for or against the proposals, Hugh rose and was warily recognized by Peyton Randolph.
Hugh nodded his thanks to the Speaker. “In the last war,” he began, “our enemies were the French and Indians, and the lands beyond the mountains were their itinerate domain where we ventured at our own peril. Our claims to property there were therefore unenforceable and moot. We have returned to that circumstance, only now our enemy is Britain, and the lands beyond the transmontane are Catholic French and Indian again, where we would venture at our own peril! And, to add salt to that wound inflicted by new British acts, our claims are not only unenforceable, but illegal, as well! Not even the most duplicitous Roman tyrant could have authored such an insidious, malicious irony!”
Some of the older burgesses grumbled audibly in protest at this last remark, but Hugh did not deign to acknowledge them. He continued, “This ‘Olive Branch’ is but a jester’s scepter, all frills and bright ribbons and noisy bells. No man worthy of the name would accept it as a gift of friendship. Do not forget that, in olden times, the court jester alone could mock a sovereign with impunity. Are we kings who would tolerate such mockery, or men? This proposal that we bleed ourselves at Parliament’s behest mocks our
intelligence and seeks to suborn our quest for liberty! It seeks to bribe any colony by abolishing taxes on some imported goods of the Crown’s choice into that amenable colony, in exchange for taxing itself for the ‘common defense.’ May I ask: Defense, against whom? And if the revenue derived by such self-impoverishment is also intended to support each colonial government, may I then ask: Whose government? One elected by the people, or a supine one slyly arranged to the Crown’s satisfaction?”
After a pause to catch his breath, he went on. “But, there is a more wicked motive behind this ‘Olive Branch,’ and that is to breach the unity that now exists in all the colonies, by luring each one away in such an arrangement. This is a common practice among ministers and parties in Parliament — I witnessed it with my own eyes, when I sat briefly in the Commons — and that practice is now proposed here! In sum, Lord North’s proposals are contemptible and too transparent in their design to be devious! There is nothing to debate concerning them. I will state this moment, that I will not vote for approval.”
One burgess across the floor rose and asked, “When you refer to election of a government by the people, sir, are you proposing democracy? It seems that anyone half familiar with the histories of Rome and Greece would apprehend the dangers of that species of polity.”
“I advocate no such thing, sir,” replied Hugh, “and I thank you for not slandering my character by imputing that I do. What we should aspire to, sir, is a republic in which our liberties are untouchable by government. We shall need to be explicit in that matter, in future, so that we leave judges and politicians no room for thoughtless or insouciant interpretation. A democracy, you say? Sir, in a democracy, policy trumps every principle but one, every time.”
“Which principle?” asked the burgess who queried Hugh.
“The public good, sir. The histories you cite prove that it is a whore that will sell itself to the greatest majority for the highest price.”
The burgesses gasped in shock at the introduction of that indiscreet term. Hugh sat down. He had nothing more to say on the subject.
Later in the day, the House voted to reject the Olive Branch propositions as an intrusion on colonial financial self-governance, as a willful neglect to repeal the disputed Acts, and as a neglect to promise free trade with the world, freed from the prison of the Navigation Acts. And it was not lost on most of the burgesses, either, that while the Crown wished the colonies to provide for the “mutual defense” by self-taxation, it was assembling an armada and army to make war on those very colonies. Hugh voted for rejection, Cullis against it.
Some days later, as a sop to Governor Dunmore, the Assembly approved of a measure to pay the invoices of the Governor’s war in the west last fall and winter, reasoning that his actions were nominally legitimate, because the territories and lands arbitrarily annexed to Canada were Virginia’s. These bills included the pay of General Lewis’s militia, some of whom were now guarding the Palace to prevent looting. It also ratified the treaty with the Indians arranged by the Governor’s crony, John Connolly. To meet those obligations, the Assembly subsequently approved a measure to impose a special tax on newly imported slaves.
To Hugh, these measures confessed a reluctance to admit that Crown authority was at an end. He abstained from voting on them. He sat patiently on the bench, at times alone, as the days rolled by, and watched the tiresome and predictable charade. Often he did not hear what business was being conducted, for his sight was fixed on a point over the Speaker’s chair, and he was lost in a reverie of that chamber’s glorious moments, moments in which he had played a part.
One afternoon, during a brief recess, and after the legislation had been submitted to a committee to prepare for presentation to the Governor, Hugh stopped in the breezeway outside that connected the House with the General Court and Council chambers. Other members had come out to smoke and talk. Hugh looked up at the white marble statue of Baron de Botetourt that stood in the middle of the breezeway, and debated with himself whether or not to bother returning to the chamber. He remembered voting against the resolution to honor the late governor with the statue.
A voice behind him said, “Yes, the riddle is solved. It has claws and teeth.”
Hugh turned to face Thomas Jefferson, and instantly recalled the exchange they had had over a year ago in this same spot. He smiled in acknowledgement. “Yes, it is a lion in ill-conceived disguise.” He nodded to the statue. “Look at it, Mr. Jefferson. See the rich robes, and the regal deportment, and the benign visage. That is the stance of tyranny. It is a gorgeous, seductive conception, is it not? Little wonder that so many men become enamored of it. That is what must happen first, for tyranny to last any length of time. The tyrant must conquer their minds, but the minds must first be willing subjects.”
Jefferson cocked his head in appreciation of the idea. “And, if they are not willing?” he asked.
“Then, if they still be men, there will be a war,” answered Hugh.
“This has been proven true, has it not?” said Jefferson. After a moment, he tucked his leather portfolio beneath an arm and clasped one of Hugh’s hands in both of his and shook it. “Mr. Kenrick, I must depart immediately for the Congress, and cannot dally here. Perhaps you would come to Philadelphia, and we could continue this discussion?”
Hugh said, “Perhaps I might. I have so little company left here.”
Jefferson released Hugh’s hand, and touched his hat. “I most earnestly hope you will. Well, goodbye, sir.”
Hugh touched his hat in answer. “Godspeed, Mr. Jefferson.”
Hugh turned his back on the statue of Botetourt to watch the Virginian rush through the piazza, turn a corner, and disappear. Then a clerk came out to ring a hand bell, signaling the end of the recess. Hugh turned and followed the other burgesses back inside. He was determined to see this session through to the end.
The legislation was taken by a delegation of the House to Yorktown and Governor Dunmore. The burgesses were told by his secretary, Captain Foy, who had also moved onboard the Fowey with his wife, not to wait; His Excellency must be given time to read the particulars and give it some thought. The chastened delegation journeyed back to Williamsburg.
Another day passed, and another messenger arrived with a note from the Governor. In the note he announced his veto of the legislation, claiming that only Parliament had the authority to create an import tax, and that the General Assembly had overreached its authority. He also withheld consent from the treaty ratification, claiming that action was an executive power, not a legislative one.
No one thought to ask whether or not His Excellency had sought the advice of his Council; for all practical purposes, the Council had been dissolved. And no one was surprised by the veto.
On June 24, Peyton Randolph ordered the clerk of the House to gavel the end of the session, and the burgesses filed out of the chamber into a hot, humid afternoon. Hugh Kenrick returned to his room at the Raleigh Tavern, and prepared to ride back to Caxton and Meum Hall.
* * *
On June 29, John Murray, Earl of Dunmore, royal governor presumptive of Virginia, oversaw the transfer of Lady Charlotte and their seven children, together with servants and other minor officials, from the Fowey to the naval schooner Magdalen. He was sending his family home to England. In the back of his mind was the intention to send for it again, once he had regained the Palace and the authority and power it represented. At the moment, he was not quite sure how he could accomplish that. But his family was a distraction and a burden, preventing him from thinking clearly about his next steps. So, it had to go.
Among those who climbed the gangboard of the Magdalen with Lady Charlotte was her new confidant and chaplain, Reverend Thomas Gwatkin, the former principal of the grammar school at the College of William and Mary. He had declined to deliver a sermon at Bruton Church in observance of the day of fasting and prayer the previous June, an event approved by the burgesses in support of the town of Boston over the port’s closing, and for which the Go
vernor had dissolved the Assembly.
When all was ready, both warships set sail and proceeded down the York River. The Magdalen was bound for New York, where Lady Charlotte and her company would take another vessel to England. The Fowey accompanied the schooner as far as the Capes, then turned its bowsprit and jibs in the direction of Norfolk, a friendlier town than was Williamsburg.
Chapter 6: The Virginians
General Thomas Gage, Governor of Massachusetts, after the Boston Tea Party in 1773 opined in a report to George the Third that the colonists “will be lions while we are lambs, but if we take the resolute part, they will undoubtedly prove very meek.” This was merely tactful assurance to his sovereign, whom he knew would not wish to hear otherwise; it was not good form to abuse the royal mind with sour news. Privately, the commander-in-chief of His Majesty’s forces in North America doubted that those forces, directed by him or by any other general, could contain the Americans were they to rise up enmasse against the Crown. Gage’s lukewarm resolve on that point in his official reports, however, merely encouraged the king and the ministry to chastise the colonies and bring them back into the empire’s fold.
On June 12, he imposed martial law on Massachusetts, proclaimed as rebels and traitors anyone aiding Americans arming against Crown authority, and offered pardons to all who swore allegiance to the Crown, all but Samuel Adams and John Hancock, the new president of the Continental Congress.
At Bunker Hill, on June 17, 1775, Gage was to be proven right in his estimate of colonial character and the scale of colonial opposition to submitting to complete imperial domination. The British lion was to be badly mauled by the colonial panther.
The Queen Anne Volunteer Company arrived in Cambridge late afternoon on June 15, tired and ragged from its grueling two-week march up through Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York and Connecticut, but ready to fight. Captain Jack Frake sought out a commander-in-chief of the American forces they encountered. He was directed by a local militia captain to report to General Artemas Ward’s headquarters, a farmhouse surrounded by the camps of Massachusetts militiamen. He marched the Company the short distance to that house, then told it to rest easy while he reported its presence and inquired about an assignment.