by Edward Cline
Hugh fell back in his chair in genuine shock. “That could not be true!”
“You may take it to be,” said Fleming. “Why else would he choose to miss an opportunity to confound and scatter his family’s rivals in the House? Those gentlemen have kept as many Lees out of our politics as they could for almost a generation. Ask yourself, this, young sir: How could he argue with any credibility against this Stamp Act, when Mr. Robinson could rise and query him about his application to be named a stamp distributor? What injury would that do to our cause?” Fleming waved a hand. “Mr. Lee is in as bad a money straits as any of us. But, as a stamp distributor, he could claim a certain percentage of the stamp revenues as his entitled salary. That is stipulated in your text of the act, and is certain to be retained in the official text. The number of stamps he would sell, together with a strenuous enforcement of the law, would put him on a pretty perch.”
Munford puffed on his pipe, and added with a note of sarcasm, “His growing solvency would be in direct proportion to our plunging insolvency, sir, and that’s a fact.”
George Johnston leaned forward and said softly, “This information must not be repeated beyond this table, Mr. Kenrick, though it is certain that our Speaker has shared it with Mr. Randolph and the others.”
Fleming said, in the same hushed tone, “Mr. Lee knows that he has compromised himself, and so has chosen to absent himself from this session so that our cause will not be compromised.” Then his face brightened. “Mr. Henry, on the other hand, cannot be compromised. He has made no careless statements in company that could be reported to Mr. Robinson, as Mr. Lee had. Mr. Henry has no recriminations to fear, no scandal to stay his tongue, no feud to regret. He expressed an interest in coming here, and we heartily endorsed it. He has a talent for confounding and scattering chaste complacency.”
Munford added, “We are fortunate that he can substitute for Mr. Lee, whose own powers of persuasion needn’t defer to Mr. Henry’s.” He sighed. “It would have been interesting, though, to see them both in action, and to observe Mr. Robinson’s party tremble in fear.”
Hugh spent other evenings either alone in his room at Mary Gandy’s place, composing special instructions for Meum Hall, which were picked up every other day by Bristol, or working on the points he would make in the House, or attending suppers or balls at the Palace. At one of the latter, he found himself in the company of most of the Council members and their wives, together with Peyton Randolph, George Wythe, and John Robinson. The Lieutenant-Governor took him aside at one point and, after some idle chat about the drought in the Northern Neck and what Fauquier called the “sullen mood of the people,” asked Hugh what he planned to say in the House, if the Stamp Act was taken under consideration. “I have heard that you are eager to worry the subject,” said Fauquier, “and that you even have a draft of it.” Fauquier grunted in self-effacing irony. “Doubtless, I will not see my copy of it for perhaps half a year. Nearly that time passed before I was ever presented with a copy of the Proclamation. The Secretary of State can be so neglectful.”
Hugh smiled. Across the ballroom he noticed Peter Randolph, who was on the Council, and his brother, Peyton, glancing at him. He said, “I would gladly furnish you with a copy of the act, your honor, so that you may know what executive duties are expected of you — onerous as I may expect those to be.” He paused, and added, “As for what I plan to say in the House about the act, I am disappointed that you should ask, and will answer only that I will say what others appear not to care to hear.”
Fauquier frowned in apology. “I regret having offended your sensibilities, Mr. Kenrick, and withdraw the question. And I have no doubt that what you will say in the House will not surprise me. Anguish me, perhaps, but not surprise me.”
Hugh shook his head. “If you are anguished, your honor, do not grieve over-much. What I will say will be in the name and spirit of British liberty, which, unless I am very much off the mark, you esteem as much as I do. So I am glad that you will not be so surprised.”
Fauquier gave his companion a wistful look, then glanced across the ballroom. “Ah! There’s Mr. Washington,” he exclaimed. “He is staying here, you know. And I see that young Mr. Jefferson has arrived as well. Now we can proceed with the music.”
On the evening of May 16th, hours after the Prosser expulsion had been concluded, Hugh was sitting on Mary Gandy’s porch with Edgar Cullis, discussing the day’s session and enjoying the pleasant evening air, when Bristol rode up, leaped from his horse, and rushed up to Hugh with a large, flat parcel. “The Sparrowhawk, she came this afternoon, sir!” he said as he thrust the parcel into Hugh’s hands. “And Mr. Ramshaw came up special to give this to Mr. Spears, and Mr. Spears said you wanted this quick if it came, and here it is!”
Hugh nodded. “Thank you, Bristol. Tether your mount, and go inside and ask Miss Gandy for some cider and a bite to eat.”
Bristol bobbed his head once and went inside the cottage. Hugh opened the parcel and removed a thick sheaf of papers. Pinned to the top sheet was a note from Dogmael Jones, dated the first of April:
“My Fellow Burgess:
Lucrece has been outraged by Sextus Tarquinius. Perhaps you can persuade her not to forsake this mortal coil; there is no protest in that final quietude. The pile of infamous misery to which I append this note is by courtesy of Mr. Thomas Whately, though he does not know it (his clerk is richer by ten pounds). You will see that it has been sealed and engrossed by His Majesty. I hope that the caricature has been a sensation. Please report, in your next missive, that Mr. Grenville and Sir Henoch have been hanged in effigy. Your family does well, and writes separately.
Your most obedient servant and ripening Pippin,
D. Jones, Esq.”
Hugh laughed in joy, in relief, in vindication, and turned to Edgar Cullis. “Now, sir, they will have something to talk about!” he exclaimed, waving the sheaf in the air. “Now, they must accept it as an enacted fact!”
It was an official copy of the Stamp Act.
Chapter 6: The Hand
On the evening of May 19th, Patrick Henry rode unrecognized into Williamsburg, found himself a billet in one of the lesser taverns, and the next morning strode to the Capitol and presented himself and his sheriff’s election certification to a clerk in the Council chambers. The clerk, by proxy, administered to him the oath of loyalty to Virginia and the Crown, and after some other minor formalities, freed the new burgess for Louisa County to make his way to the House and find himself a place on the benches.
Instead, Henry stood with the spectators in the public space and listened to a debate among the burgesses over whether or not to vote money for the construction of a public gallery. When the House recessed in midafternoon for dinner, he approached the Speaker and Attorney-General and formally introduced himself. Those two gentlemen welcomed him with icy courtesy, while George Wythe, Richard Bland, and Edmund Pendleton warily appraised the newcomer from a distance. Henry’s dark, somber apparel contrasted sharply with the shimmering colors of the frock coats of those burgesses. They noted, however, that Henry’s suit was new, and that he wore a plain but new tricorn over his own tied-back hair. This lured them into the hope that perhaps he did not portend trouble and that he was open to concession.
When Henry left the Capitol after a brief conversation with Robinson, Colonel Munford, George Johnston, John Fleming, and Hugh Kenrick were waiting for him outside.
“Let us repair to the Blue Bell for our supper,” suggested Fleming to the group. “I would prefer Mrs. Campbell’s fare, but the great ones in the House will be there and their ears would be too…hungry.”
The four other nodded in agreement. The Blue Bell Tavern was not much frequented by members of the House. Henry said, “I have been put on the Committee for Courts of Justice. There is some work to do there, but not enough to divert me from my purpose here.”
Johnston chuckled. “I can only imagine that your instant employment is Mr. Randolph’s manner of embracing you, Mr. H
enry.”
“And that, sir,” replied Henry with a laugh, “would indeed be a suffocating friendship!” The group laughed in turn and began walking away from the Capitol. “They are more concerned about Mr. Robinson’s loan office scheme, gentlemen, than they are about the Stamp Act, and are saving consideration of it for later in the session. That was Mr. Robinson’s assurance. But I did not assure him that I had an opinion of it.”
Colonel Munford snorted. “When half the House will have gone home, and many of those who remain will have a special interest in the scheme.”
“It must be defeated,” said Henry. “They are as secretive about its details as a table of sharpers playing whist. But I do believe it is a form of this Stamp Act. The people of this colony will be expected to subsidize this ostentatious oligarchy, through special taxes to keep a fund available for those expensive paupers…. ”
Hugh followed the four men and listened to them discuss other House matters. When they arrived at the Blue Bell, they were able to secure a table in a corner of the busy establishment. Henry was a favorite patron of the proprietor’s, for he often stayed here when he came to Williamsburg on law business.
After some cordial talk about their families and properties, Henry steered the conversation to what was most on all their minds. “Mr. Kenrick,” he said, “I must thank you again for the copy of the act you left with me. It helped me to form some thoughts on what must be said and done.” He paused to open his portfolio, and took out a sheet of paper. It looked like the blank leaf of a book. “It is my hope that this company unanimously agrees that what are needed are not more remonstrances or memorials, but plain, unhumble resolves.” He handed the page to John Fleming. “There are five there, dictated by me to my dear Sarah. I was too impatient to pen them myself.”
Fleming read the five resolutions on the page. When he had finished, he said, “These, sir, comprise the proper language of protest.” He passed the page on to Munford. Johnston moved closer to the colonel to read them, too.
Henry reached again into his portfolio, and produced another page. “I have two more,” he said to Fleming, “which I composed when I stopped at an ordinary in New Kent. These are logical companions of those five.” He handed Fleming the paper.
The burgess nearly gasped when he read them. He cocked his head in appreciation, and said, “Well put, sir. These are logical companions, but I fear that they have little chance of success in the House.” He ran a hand worriedly but thoughtfully over his face. “The first five will be difficult enough, even though they are more vital assertions of the last session’s protests. There is nothing in them that Mr. Bland and his friends could object to, for they have already said the same things, though in meeker language. But, these two are nearly…revolutionary!”
“But true,” replied Henry.
“Yes,” said Fleming with a nod. “They are that.”
Hugh read the first five resolves after Munford passed them over to him. He grinned in exultation when he finished, and said to Henry, “These are in a proper language, and I will support them.”
Johnston pushed the second paper across to Hugh. “And these, sir?”
Hugh read the sixth and seventh resolutions. After a moment, he said, “Yes, and these.” He glanced at Henry. “Taken together, sir, these seven resolves comprise the sword we spoke about.” He paused. “Mr. Fleming is correct, though, in his certainty that these last two will be too violent for the House. Nevertheless, I am willing to argue for their adoption, as well.”
Fleming, Johnston, and Munford all nodded in agreement and in support. Fleming drew the two pages toward him and reread the resolves. When he was done, he said, “They want a preamble, Mr. Henry. An overture.”
“You may compose one, if you think one necessary,” said Henry.
Hugh reached into his own portfolio and drew out his copy of the enacted Stamp Act. He passed it across the table to Henry. “For your perusal, sir. The gentlemen here and I have discussed the best time to present it to Mr. Robinson and Mr. Randolph. We agree that it should be some time before the loan office matter has been disposed of. Of course, Mr. Montague’s copy may arrive before that.”
Fleming chuckled and shook his head. “Forgive me my wisdom, sir, but if we must rely on those gentlemen to report the arrival of that document, we may never know it.” He reached over and patted the sheaf of Stamp Act pages with a loving hand. “Our friends in the House are playing an interesting game of faro, gentlemen, and believe themselves supreme dealers. But here is a king of hearts they are wrongly betting will never emerge from the shoe.”
Colonel Munford laughed and raised his glass of port. “Gentlemen, a toast to our country — to Virginia!”
The other four men joined him, raised their glasses, and clinked them together over the center of the table. “To Virginia!” they said in chorus.
Hugh added, to the surprise of his companions, because they had never heard it before, “And, long live Lady Liberty!”
Chapter 7: The Gamblers
“There are but two important topics remaining for the House to consider, sir: Mr. Robinson’s loan office, and the late act of Parliament.”
“You may count on my signature under the loan office, Mr. Wythe, provided, of course, the Council approves it.” Lieutenant-Governor Francis Fauquier paused to clear his throat. “As to the late act, well, I believe that will give us all a stretch of bother, and you may not count on my signature, if whatever answer to it your fellows contrive I judge to be indecent and offensive.”
George Wythe, burgess for Elizabeth City near Norfolk, was not with his fellow “great ones” at Mrs. Campbell’s Tavern that same evening, but had supped with the governor and George Washington at the Palace. Washington often stayed at the Palace when he came to Williamsburg. At the moment, their supper behind them, they sat together around a table in a small room near the Lieutenant-Governor’s quarters, playing a brisk game of five-card loo. At their elbows were piles of wooden chips and glasses of French brandy. A window was open to the pleasant May evening air, which stirred the curtains and the candlelight. A stack of chips sat in the middle of the green baize cloth that covered the table.
“It is hoped that nothing is contrived,” remarked Wythe. “What needed to be said was said by us last session. But the act may be debated in the coming week, provided, of course, there is something to debate. Mr. Robinson and Mr. Randolph would lief wait until a copy makes an appearance.”
Washington said to Fauquier, “I have a suspicion, sir, that what the House may contrive will not require your signature.”
The Lieutenant-Governor hummed in thought at this remark. “It is a prudent thing that Mr. Robinson will not permit debate on the act until an official copy of it is at hand,” he said. “Is one, my friend?” he asked Wythe.
Wythe shrugged. “I have no knowledge of it, sir, if one has indeed arrived.” He shook his head. “And if one does arrive, it is too serious a matter to consider calmly in so short a time. I will then recommend that discussion of it be deferred to the next session.”
Fauquier nodded in satisfaction. “You may convey that sentiment as my own to the House, Mr. Wythe.” He turned to Washington. “Of course, if what the House contrives is of a rash and defiant nature, I will have no choice but to dissolve the Assembly.”
“That would be your privilege and duty, sir,” replied Washington with a restrained deference that seemed to cloak an inexplicable hostility, one which the Lieutenant-Governor had never known before in the man.
Wythe nodded in agreement. He acted as the Lieutenant-Governor’s unofficial spokesman in the House. “Loo!” he exclaimed suddenly, after the governor had dealt him a replacement card. With practiced grace, he fanned his card hand over the green baize; they were all of the same suit, which beat the hands held by Washington and the governor. He reached over and added the stack of chips to his own pile.
It was Washington’s turn to deal. As he collected the cards and shuffled them, Wythe ask
ed him, “What are your thoughts on the loan office, sir?”
Washington frowned and said over the whisper of the cards moving in his fingers, “What little has been said about it, sir, I dislike. True, a loan to us by British merchants would bring us some true sterling here. God knows, we need such money in these parts. But I must ask this: For how long would that sterling stay in our purses, before it was whisked away in duties and taxes and the debts we already owe those gentlemen?” He shook his head. “I am not in favor of increasing our debt to them. My children and grandchildren would needs spend their whole lives paying it off, living on their own property as mere tenants of absentee landlords in London, for that would be the only end consequence.” He smiled gravely at Wythe, to let him know that he had other thoughts on the subject, but would not voice them here. He dealt the cards.
“I see,” said Wythe. He picked up the cards Washington had dealt him. “And…on the Stamp Act?”
Again, Washington shook his head, but glanced first at Fauquier as he replied to his fellow burgess. “With all due respect to our host and the Crown, I believe it is as villainous a piece of legislation as can be imagined. It is the logical successor of the Proclamation of ’63. It must be protested again, if not in this session, then in the next. That is when I expect words to be exchanged over it, and many of those may be my own. I do not think the people of this colony will long tolerate it, and will press their representatives to contest the act. Now, I have a wheat harvest to oversee, and that will not wait. I shall depart after the loan office matter has been voted on. But, come next November, I will have something to say about that act.” Relaxing his scowl, the colonel turned again to study the hand of cards he had dealt himself.
