by Edward Cline
This refusal assumed the outward character of incorruptible principle, and allowed many members of the Commons to oppose repeal with righteous anger, such as Colonel Thomas Molyneux, member for Haslemere, who at one point assailed an “ungrateful America. Shall we stay ’til some Oliver rises up amongst them? Four sorts of people appear among them: hypocrites, agitators, preachers, and levelers!”
“Also, patriots and men of honor and industry,” said Jones to Molyneux in the coffee room of the House later that day.
“Excuse me, sir?” asked the member for Haslemere, turning with surprise to him.
“Very few of those to be found in this other hospital for invalids,” said Jones. He paid the servant at the bar for the beverage, and gave the man a halfpenny gratuity. It was seven o’clock in the evening. The room was filling up with members seeking refreshments and respite from the debates in the chamber.
Molyneux, after he too had paid the servant, turned to Jones and replied, with tentative frost allayed by doubt, “You have lost me, sir,” for he was unsure whether or not he was being insulted.
“I refer to your speech today and the prisoners you name in the dock of treason. If you believe that the colonials are being shepherded in their outrage by hypocrites and agitators, then you underestimate them and you will lose the colonies. But I have heard that preachers there command more attention than ours do here — when they preach liberty, which they often do these times. As for the levelers, I am certain they would object to a grasping Cromwell with more fury than they would for a mere stamp distributor. And surely you have heard of the misfortunes of some of those chaps.”
Molyneux frowned in genuine confusion and replied with some irritation, “God’s truth, sir, I don’t know whether to agree with you or take offense!” Then he narrowed his eyes, and said, “I know you, sir! You are the fellow who insulted the House last session!”
“And I may find it necessary to insult it again.”
“If you do, sir, you may find your cheeks smarting from several pairs of gloves!” Molyneux sniffed in dismissal, then turned and strode to another part of the crowded room to join some cronies.
Jones smiled in amusement and sipped his coffee. “Doubtless, yours will be the first.”
A familiar, mellifluous voice behind him remarked, “Collecting friends again, Sir Dogmael?”
Jones turned to face the great bulk of Sir Henoch Pannell. “I love thee not. Therefore, pursue me not,” he answered. By mutual agreement and animosity, the two had conspicuously avoided each other since passage of the Stamp Act in the last session of Parliament.
Pannell chuckled and shook his head. “Doubtless, you plagiarize another bard unknown to me.”
“No. Just the usual one.”
“Why, I half expected you to have risen across the aisle by now to assail us with half a dozen bardish gems, steeped in your own novel notions,” Pannell said. “I am gravely disappointed. We do need our entertainment in such grave affairs as this, you know.” Henoch Pannell waved a hand to indicate the coffee room and the chamber beyond the closed oaken doors, through which a speaker could still be heard. Pannell exuded a genuine air of jollity the whole two months of debates, in sharp contrast to the humorless determination of other members on both sides of the question. He was one of the few who were certain that victory could be had in defeat. The Crown would have a revenue from its British “flora” in North America, by hook or by crook. A declaratory act, he had been privately assuring allies in the House, would guarantee it, backed, if necessary, by an increase in the garrisons there and a more vigorous prosecution of the myriad strictures of the navigation laws.
“I am biding my time, and will strike at a moment of my choosing,” Jones said.
“You know,” said Pannell, “you really oughtn’t to burden military fellows like Colonel Molyneux with such high-flying talk. Most of them sport walnuts for brains. They may take it as abuse, and call you out to pistols. You heard the dear Colonel.” The member for Canovan sipped his tea.
Jones shrugged and tasted his coffee. “I face my mortality every day, Sir Henoch, as I search for a proof against stealthy eavesdroppers.”
“Yes, of course. So do we all. But you would face expulsion from the House only once, if you insult it, as you promised the Colonel you would. You know the rules.”
“I will speak my mind, nevertheless.”
“So said Mr. Wilkes. You know what happened to him.” Pannell laughed. “He is not here.”
“He will be back. The rogue has champions here. I will be one of them.”
“Why, that fellow is a worse bounder than I believe you think I am, sir! And you propose to enter the lists in his cause? That is most confabulating indeed, as confabulating as Mr. Pitt’s speech, wouldn’t you agree?” When Jones did not reply to his question, he shook his head. “It is beyond my ken!”
Jones smiled pointedly. “Much is,” he remarked.
“There you go again, chiding me for my ignorance,” laughed Pannell, indifferent to the slight. Then he frowned in mock seriousness. “Speaking of books, lately I have been reading Lord Wooten’s book on collateral justice. Fascinating stuff. I hear it’s got all the benches in a dither. Have you read it?”
Jones remembered Sir Bevill Grainger’s remarks on the subject from years ago when the former Master of the Rolls presided over the Pippins’ trial. “Yes, I have perused a few of its pages. I was present when he took his first notes on the subject.” He paused. “It surprises me that you would bother to tackle something as difficult as a judicial theory, even one as disturbingly degenerate as Lord Wooten’s.”
“Well, there you are, sir! It pleases me that I have shocked you, for once! Degenerate, you say? Rather, revolutionary! Try a man for his charged crimes, find him guilty of all the others he weren’t tried for, or was suspected of, and toss in a few more years or even the noose, if the judge and jury have a mind to!” Pannell grinned. “It was my idea, you know, though I could never have worked out the details. Never had the time! However, I have written Lord Wooten about how his notion could be applied to the colonial problem. Round up all the upstarts there and hang them for treason! Or at least sentence them to a turn in Jamaica or the Barbados to harvest cane, where they would meet much the same end, with the sun as their hangman.” Pannell’s broad face brightened. “Here’s a notion, sir! Have supper with me tonight at my place in Canovan, and you can explain to me why you now sport such a sour phiz!”
“Thank you, Sir Henoch,” answered Jones, shaking his head, “but wisdom would be wasted on you, just as it might have been on Judge Jeffreys.” He saw that Pannell did not grasp his allusion to the Bloody Assizes, and finished his coffee. “Or, shall I say, the labor would be lost? So, before I return to my seat, I leave you with an appropriate bardish gem to contemplate: ‘A world of torments though I should endure, I would not yield to be our house’s guest, so much I hate the breaking cause to be of heavenly oaths, vowed with integrity.’”
Pannell grinned with an appreciation that startled even himself. “That’s pretty, sir! It almost rhymes, it does! What fellow is credited with that?”
“Not a fellow,” sighed Jones, surprised that Pannell did not ask what it meant, “but a Princess of France.” With a slight nod of his head, he turned, handed his cup to a passing factotum, and made for the oaken doors and the chamber beyond.
Pannell trailed behind him across the room. “You know, Sir Dogmael, there’s no reason why we can’t be friends. We have such diverting chats. I own that each time we trade insults, I walk away a little wiser. I mean, we know each other well enough that our politics oughtn’t to interfere at all. ”
Jones paused to turn and answer, “Well, you must also own that, from my perspective, it would hardly be a fair trade, something akin to the relationship between the colonies and the Crown. So, I must say of you what I have heard has been said of the late Duke of Cumberland, and urge you to adopt it as your own rule, as well.”
“What is th
at?”
“Those who knew him best, liked him least, or not at all. Good night to you, sir.” Jones turned and left the noise of the coffee room for the noise of the House chamber.
Pannell grimaced sadly and shook his head. “Difficult fellow, that Jones.”
Jones slept irregularly those two months, for the debates in the Commons usually began in mid-afternoon and often lasted until the early hours of the next day. He attended the Commons daily, not wanting to miss an important speech or motion, dividing his resting times between his rooms near the Inns of Court and Cricklegate in Chelsea. He was particularly interested in hearing the testimony of the witnesses. Benjamin Franklin was scheduled to be questioned — or rather interrogated by a hostile House, he warned the Pennsylvanian during a supper at William Meredith’s house one evening — and he wanted to put some questions to that man when he was called. Also, Colonel George Mercer of Virginia was scheduled to testify, and he had some particular questions to put to that man, as well.
Often he would appear at two o’clock in the morning at the Kenricks’ house in Chelsea, bleary-eyed, unshaven, unkempt, to be admitted by one of the servants. In the mornings, while Owen Runcorn shaved him, he would report the previous day’s events in the House to Garnet Kenrick, then breakfast with the Kenricks and Roger Tallmadge before departing with the lieutenant by carriage for another round of debates or his barrister obligations at the King’s Bench in Westminster Hall adjacent to the Commons.
When he returned to his rooms on Chancery Lane near the Serjeants’ Inn, he would gaze wistfully at the mass of unorganized papers that was his own book on the subject of property and public places, hoping that after this session of Parliament he would find more time to devote to its further progress. His occasional secretary and amanuensis, Winslow LeGrand, was assisting him with the research for that book and also with his correspondence.
One morning in mid-February at Cricklegate, he was awakened by one of the Kenricks’ servants and informed that his sponsor had been summoned by his brother the Earl to Windridge Court. The Baron wished him to accompany him to London. He hurriedly dressed, shaved himself, and joined his friend downstairs for a quick breakfast. Then, as the carriage made its way to Westminster through the chilly, charcoal gray fog, Jones asked, “Why does he want to see you?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Jones,” said Garnet Kenrick as the carriage rumbled over the road. “The footman who delivered the note could or would not say. Bridgette, who received the note, said he did not tarry long enough for a reply, but remounted and rode away before she could even close the door.” After a moment, he mused, “It can’t be about estate business. I sent him the accounts and his draft a month ago, and I should have heard from him sooner if something had been amiss.”
Jones merely drummed his fingers on the top of the satchel on his lap. He had never voiced an opinion about his sponsor’s brother, although he was certain the Baron knew what he thought of the Earl. The Baron had often railed against his brother in his presence, but Jones did not presume to criticize the Earl himself. It was a rule he vowed never to break, if only for decorum’s sake. He had never related to the Baron the Earl’s ruse last year with the false invitation to the Duke of Bedford’s residence.
They did not talk much during the ride. They had too often discussed, as the debates ground on, a phenomenon they had both observed, which was the gradual whittling down of the arguments of those who argued for repeal to a pathetic concession by them of Parliamentary supremacy. Only a few other members saw the contradiction and conflict between repeal and a declaration of blanket authority. Almost to a man, taking Pitt’s lead, even though he at the time denied it, the most ardent advocates of repeal began to surrender the high ground to the opposition.
Jones and the Baron stoically endured the debates and the desertion of the high ground, certain of the outcome. Neither of them knew how to persuade their allies of the poisonous contradiction. Only a few prominent members, such as Pitt, were opposed to a declaratory act, and they would not be able to influence the crucial vote against it.
Jones, wanting to distract his friend, who seemed anxious about his first meeting with his brother in over a year, said, “Lord Camden granted me a moment yesterday, milord. He deigned to join me in the Purgatory Tavern near the Yard. He plans to argue that since both Houses refuse to recognize or even debate the rights of the colonials as Englishmen, they affirm those rights, and so nullify the legality of the Stamp Act. ‘If I contradict not, then I affirm,’ he said. He will also maintain that taxation and representation are inseparable. God has united them, and no British Parliament can separate them. That is his contention.” He added, with sour irony, “I believe he hopes that his fellow peers are not so full of themselves that they would attempt to substitute their own design and will for the Almighty’s.”
Garnet Kenrick scoffed in amazement. “What has God got to do with it? I am not so familiar with the Bible, but I am certain there are no books in it devoted exclusively to the limitations of Crown authority over the internal business of Virginia and Massachusetts!”
Jones shrugged. “Doubtless, he will call on Mr. Locke’s authority.” After a pause, he grinned. “You’ve hit upon an interesting notion, milord. Material for another caricature! The Book of Mansfield in the Old Testament, versus the Book of Camden in the New, each lordly justice holding a pair of stone tablets. I can imagine now the holy hell such a caricature would raise, if we could find a newspaper with bottom enough to publish it.”
“And you wouldn’t, Mr. Jones! Don’t you even think of it!” snapped the Baron immediately. “Holy hell it would be! I would not want to see you tried and hanged for heresy, as well! It is one thing to portray bishops and churchmen as packs of vultures. It is quite another to ascribe Godly omniscience to mortals, even though it may flatter them! You would be sued and persecuted nonetheless! Remember what happened to your clients, the Pippins!”
“How could I forget?” After a pause, Jones asked, out of curiosity, “As well as what, milord?”
“For being yourself, you incorrigible rascal!” answered the Baron with angry affection.
“Thank you, milord.” A moment passed, the silence broken only by the rattle of the carriage windows. Then Jones said, “I must say that Lord Camden’s proposed argument is a rather specious and dilatory advocacy of the colonials’ cause. Even so, I doubt that anyone in Lords or the Commons will take the bait. In any event, it does not address the issue of rights.”
“That is true,” said the Baron.
They said no more until they reached Windridge Court.
* * *
Alden Curle appeared at the door of Windridge Court when the carriage stopped in the flagstone courtyard. As its passengers debouched, he was surprised to see his employer’s brother accompanied by a stranger. He doubted this would please the Earl. When the pair was before him, he bowed slightly with the greeting, “Milord Kenrick, it is so nice to see you again.” He did not glance at Jones.
The Baron nodded curtly to Curle; he had never liked the man. The major domo preceded him and Jones into the mansion, and showed them to the Earl’s study. “His lordship will be with you shortly, milord,” Curle said as he bowed and began to leave the room.
“Mr. Curle,” called Garnet Kenrick.
Curle stopped and turned. “Yes, milord?”
“It was a damp ride, and we would appreciate some tea to warm our bones, thank you.”
“Of course, milord,” answered the servant, seeming surprised that anyone should make such a request. “This instant.” He bowed again and left them alone.
“Basil will make us wait,” remarked Garnet Kenrick to Jones as they removed their overcoats and sat down in a pair of chairs in front of the desk. “And, properly, a tea service should have been prepared and laid out here already. That it was not is an omen of what I can expect from my dear brother.”
“How will you explain my presence?” asked Jones. “I am certain he will not be pleas
ed to see me. To judge by your reception, I’m wagering that he’s as dismal as the day.”
“I shall say you are my bodyguard. He can take that as he wishes.”
“Or your legal counsel, milord,” Jones suggested. “Much the same thing.”
Garnet Kenrick chuckled. “That’s right. You are a lawyer. I am always forgetting that.”
The tea service presently arrived, brought by one of Curle’s underlings, who left without offering to assist. Jones poured their cups. The tea was cold. Jones nodded to the bell-pull behind the Earl’s desk. “Shall I ring for hot?” he asked the Baron.
Garnet Kenrick shook his head. “No, Mr. Jones. Don’t bother.”
Half an hour later Basil Kenrick came through the door. “Good morning, dear brother,” he said with a nod to the Baron. “I trust you are well.”
Garnet Kenrick rose. “Good morning, Basil,” he also said with a nod. “Yes, I am well. And, you?”
“Well enough.” He glanced at Jones, who had also risen. “And who is this gentleman?”
“Sir Dogmael Jones, member for Swansditch, and my friend and ally.”
The Earl took his seat behind the desk. He studiously ignored Jones the rest of the interview, his glance flitting between his brother and a framed Furber print on the wall near him. “Is his presence necessary?”
