SH03_Sparrowhawk: Caxton

by Edward Cline

  As with Jack, the discriminating milieu of loneliness moved Hugh to raise the stakes of solitude, not from a wish to spare himself the sapping drudgery of a conventional, passionless marriage, but rather to gamble on the existence of a just goddess. Like Jack’s, his core being was attuned solely to the enrapturing company of a scintillating paragon, to a woman who was indivisibly and alluringly noble.

  Chapter 17: The Hiatus

  Early in 1763, the Caxton Courier published the marriage banns of three engaged couples: of James Vishonn and Selina Granby; of William Granby and Eleanor Cullis; and of Morris Otway and Annyce Vishonn. The nuptials would have been performed that spring in separate ceremonies in the homes of the brides’ or grooms’ parents, but Reece Vishonn persuaded all the concerned parties to agree to a triple wedding at Enderly, officiated by Reverend Acland for a special fee. His private reason was that since two of the children were his own, they would have been married in his home anyway.

  The unusual event also gave him an excuse to combine it with a special ball to mark the Treaty of Paris, signed in February and officially announced by Lieutenant-Governor Fauquier at the opening of the new session of the General Assembly in mid-May. Word of the treaty had reached Caxton in late April from ship captains fresh from London. Once the planter had the idea of a wedding-ball, he wasted little time getting out word of it. Soon after, rumor reached him that the Governor himself might even attend, arriving in his resplendent gilt coach-and-six. The possibility sent Reece Vishonn and his wife, Barbara, into joyous if subdued hysteria. Fauquier did not come, though the general disappointment in this was lessened by the attendance of three of his Council members, who reported that the Governor was “overly pressed with the business of his office.”

  Jack Frake attended the affair. Reece Vishonn kept a nervous though discreet eye on him the whole time, afraid that he might engage the Council members in “provocative politics.” Jack reassured his host at one point after the wedding ceremony, “Have no fear, sir. For the moment, I have said all I need to say about the consequences of the peace.”

  “Are you convinced now that the empire is secure?” asked Vishonn.

  Jack shook his head. “Quite the opposite, sir. I am certain that its management will prove to be a challenge to the skills of liberal men, who must either be replaced by petit tyrants, or become themselves tyrants.”

  Reece Vishonn glanced around, hoping that no one else in the crowded ballroom had heard this. Then he sighed. “Really, sir, a little faith in your fellow men might greatly contribute to your happiness.” He added, “I mean no insult, sir, but speak in the role of a friend and fellow planter.”

  “None taken, sir,” said Jack with a smile. “However, I must point out that what you and the others fear, has already begun. The empire is not secure. No doubt you have read Mr. James Otis’s remarks in the Gazette concerning the constitutionality of writs of assistance. Mr. Otis lost that case in Boston, but the words were spoken and are a matter of record. Then, there is the matter of the uprising of the Indians on the far frontier, led by this chief, Pontiac. If I wish the empire any success, it is that His Majesty’s troops can extinguish it. That is the extent of my faith in my fellow men.”

  “That is only a rumor, sir,” Vishonn said. “There has been nothing in the Courier or the Gazette about an uprising.” He paused for a moment to think. “But, if it is true, what of it?”

  Jack shrugged. “Will a military problem be employed, in time, in the solution of a political one?”

  Vishonn scoffed. “I am not aware that there is a political problem, Mr. Frake. But, I do agree with you about solving the Indian one. If I did not know any better, I would say that you were a personal advisor to Lord Amherst on how to best deal with the savages. You and Mr. Kenrick, so I’ve heard.” The planter leaned closer to Jack and said in a near whisper, “I’ve also heard that Fauquier has nearly convinced Lord Amherst to visit Virginia to see for himself what a tidy state he has put it in. Sir Jeffery is our true Governor, after all. He is so close to the colony, but has been overly pressed himself with his duties as commander-in-chief and Governor-General.”

  “And you would plan another ball,” said Jack, “should he decide to accept Governor Fauquier’s invitation?”

  “Without question, sir,” chuckled Vishonn. He glanced around again. “Well, there is my wife, waving to me with another problem. Please, enjoy yourself, sir. And thank you for expressing your good wishes to my son and daughter.” Reece Vishonn rushed away.

  The McRaes were there, as was Etáin with her harp, and as were the Kenny brothers and almost enough guest musicians from Williamsburg that, together, they nearly composed an orchestra. Jack spent most of his time with Etáin and her parents.

  In the placid interval between Quebec and the avalanche of events that was to overtake Virginia and the colonies, Caxton had recovered from, and reconciled itself to, such local disturbances as the manumission of Hugh Kenrick’s slaves; Jack’s decision to free his remaining slaves, over their protests, using the same “Quaker” ruse; Hugh’s conduit, which attracted the curiosity of some planters beyond Queen Anne County after Wendel Barret ran a description of it in the Courier; Reece Vishonn’s attempt to duplicate the conduit on his own land with iron pipe, without success; and the defeated bill, introduced in the House of Burgesses by Edgar Cullis and William Granby, to impose an eleven-pence per pipe levy on imported molasses and a three-pence per pound levy on West Indian spices, over and above what was already imposed by Crown customs collectors, for the purpose of establishing and administering a Virginia-controlled maritime piloting service on all the colony’s bays and rivers.

  There had also been some controversy over the proposal by the vestrymen of Stepney Parish to approve Hugh’s offer to make available from his brickyard the materials to create walkways along the shop fronts on Queen Anne Street, in exchange for a six-year abatement of parish tithes for Meum Hall. Hugh had hired an itinerant brickmaker, Henry Zouch, to repair the disused kiln on his property, with the ultimate goal of making and selling bricks to the rest of the county. Substandard or marginal bricks could be used, he explained to Vishonn and the other vestrymen, to lay down walkways. “Think of the advantages, sirs,” he told them. “The proprietors would have cleaner floors, you would have cleaner boots, and the town could boast of an amenity lacking even in Williamsburg. The mud and dust that we accept as an unavoidable nuisance, could be baked into sturdy, durable rectangles on which to tread with a confident foot.” The matter sat unresolved on the vestrymen’s official agenda; the twelve notables were evenly divided on the practicality of the idea.

  At the wedding-ball, one Council member enquired after this remarkable young man, Hugh Kenrick, who eschewed his title, who introduced the novel ideas, who had freed his slaves. Reece Vishonn had wanted to introduce Hugh to the man — he was quite as proud of having such as person as his neighbor as he was of Enderly — but the master of Meum Hall was not in Caxton for the festive occasion.

  Hugh Kenrick was aboard the merchantman Roilance, bound for England.

  * * *

  In April, Hugh received a letter from his father, who wrote: “I have ventured into a realm I once disdained and swore never to soil my hands in: politics. I will say no more on this subject. The details can be wrung from me by you only in person. Your mother and I hope that you are sufficiently intrigued by this teasing revelation that you will think of favoring us with a visit, if only to satisfy your probable astonishment. My son, you have been away for five years! Must we remind you of the last time we saw you, when we waved worried farewells to you in Weymouth Harbor, and you to us from the deck of the Sparrowhawk? Our last sight of you was a speck of white sail on the horizon, as it carried you to Plymouth and beyond. I would undertake such a voyage myself to see you and the property — your sketches of it that you sent us are themselves intriguing — but I do not trust your uncle enough to absent myself from Danvers or London for so long a period of time. I will say
this much, though: Your uncle is one of the reasons I have purchased a seat in the Commons….”

  Hugh was doubly astonished by his father’s news, and by the years. After a moment, while he sat holding the letter, the significance of all those years became weightier in his mind than the news of his father entering politics. Until he read that sentence, it had not seemed so long a time to him. Those years had been filled with the action of his new life, and they were no more important to him than if they were chalked strokes on a piece of slate. He reminded himself many times over those years that he should go home on a visit, but the reminder became a mere mental habit that receded further and further to the back of his consciousness, driven there by the immediate concerns of a vigorous, headlong life.

  He had frowned, and read on: “Matters between your uncle and me have grown so acerbic that we can no longer share Windridge Court. Our staff are also in bitter conflict with your Uncle Basil’s. We have therefore taken a long lease on a gracious house in Chelsea called Cricklegate from a merchant of Mr. Worley’s kind acquaintance. It was designed by Mr. Robert Adam, and comes well-appointed. It is on Paradise Row, close by to Cheyne Walk, not far from the river. We have arranged for your sister Alice to attend a ladies’ academy at nearby Gough House, run by a Mrs. Pemberton, the widow of an East India Company merchant….

  “There has been some progress on the new Blackfriars bridge. The first arches are completed, and our Portland quarry has supplied a goodly tonnage of stone for it. They are only just now planning to fill up the Fleet Canal to make a new avenue of it. I cannot, however, help but draw similarities between the bridge and the political situation. The road of peace has begun, but all I see before us is a chasm gusting with the winds of uncertainty, anger, and avarice….

  “By the time you read this, Parliament will have adjourned until November. Lord Bute is not expected to remain at Treasury for long; that is, most hope that he will have surrendered the seals of office before the next session of this Parliament. He is disliked and opposed for a number of reasons, not least of which is the treaty he has concluded with France. Although it and the peace preliminaries were violently debated in both Houses, some aver that he overcame the opposition with base trafficking in bluster and favors to secure enough votes for approval, so that the treaty could receive the king’s assent. This favorite of His Majesty is nonetheless so detested that even Sir Charles Pratt, who is His Majesty’s counsel and a member of the Privy Council (and lord justice of the Common Pleas — he is a man to watch!), is one of many who are whispering the notion that the French minister Choiseul paid Lord Bute handsomely for ‘delivering’ the treaty. Lord Bute has not one supporter on the Council, excepting the king himself, who must weep in secret in his closet over the difficulties encountered by his mentor and friend.

  “Adding to Lord Bute’s universal unpopularity is his commitment to the proposed cider tax. The western counties have already promised wholesale civil disobedience if it is made law, even though their representatives may vote for it. Perhaps the sole person in the kingdom who might express some gratitude for Lord Bute’s tenure is Dr. Samuel Johnson, who, as you must have read in the colonial newspapers, was awarded a pension last year by Lord Bute from the king’s secret service fund. Dr. Johnson must have gulleted a full tankard of his own pride to have accepted the emolument. It was a pension, tendered by a Scot no less, and only he can know which he claimed to have abhorred more. Well, even a court jester may retire with some dignity, but some men of great lights and accomplishment, it seems, exhibit an unbecoming humility that ranks them beneath the most craven fool, a humility, I believe, founded on duplicity….

  “But once Lord Bute is gone, and a new government is formed, the great question that will occupy everyone’s minds and labors will be how this nation is going to pay for its victories….”

  There were other matters and subjects reported in Garnet Kenrick’s letter. “Mr. Worley has disposed of the tobacco you sent. M. Edouard-César Bric, a commercial agent who purchases for Dutch and Danish interests as well as for the French Farmers-General, has remarked that your leaf is among the best quality he has ever seen, and hopes to purchase more. He intimated to Mr. Worley that he may even venture to the colonies to appraise their trading situations. The French seem to be as eager to get back to business as the English.”

  His father also discussed some business concerning the Ariadne and the Busy, but returned to politics again. “Lord Edgremont is ailing and not expected to survive the year…. Henry Fox was created Lord Holland, Baron of Foley…. The Marquis of Rockingham, young though he is, is proving to be ever as much adept as his late father in politics. He appears to be inactive in these matters, but is quietly assembling a party of allied seats in the Commons. He nearly beat me to the seat I have purchased…. I was proven wrong about the partnership of your uncle and Sir Hennoch Pannell. They work well together, it seems, Sir Hennoch being the glove, and your uncle the hand….”

  Garnet Kenrick ended his letter with another plea: “Your mother, Alice, and I wish most earnestly that you will come, for we are aching to see the man who has reported to us in his letters his many triumphs in Virginia. Perish the thought that his Herculean labors have so cost him such affections for us that he must think twice about presenting himself before proud and happy parents after so long a sojourn…. We are going to Cricklegate in June, so you must address your correspondence there, or perhaps appear on our doorstep….”

  The letter dropped from Hugh’s hand. In that instant he decided to visit England for a while. There were some plantation matters he wanted to see to first over the next few weeks. And after he arranged with Mr. Settle and Mr. Beecroft how to manage Meum Hall while he was gone, he could leave with an easier mind. He drew forth a sheet of paper, picked up a quill, and wrote a reply to his father, briefly stating his intention to sail for England in early May.

  He told Jack Frake: “My father intimates that things are aboil in the government, and that once Bute is gone, Parliament and the ministry that succeeds him will begin to ponder the war debts and the costs and means of keeping Mr. Pitt’s gains — or rather what is left of them.”

  Jack looked thoughtful for a moment. “What does your father fear that he has taken up politics?”

  “My Uncle Basil, I suppose,” said Hugh. “He has spoken in Lords for the status quo, or for more of it, as has Sir Hennoch in the Commons, my father writes, arguing for the same. But if my father is so uneasy that he has invested time and money for the privilege of being heard in the Commons, my uncle cannot be the sole reason, on whom he would not spend a penny for spite.”

  “Perhaps he has our perspective on things,” suggested Jack.

  Hugh shook his head. “No. He is a wonderful and honest man, but his acumen is only a little better than is Governor Fauquier’s.” He saw the amused, perplexed look on Jack’s face, and went on to explain. “That is, he will agree upon reflection on the rightness or wrongness of certain matters, but, without prodding, rarely delve to the core of them.” He paused to smile. “That is an affectionate criticism.”

  Jack thought: I almost envy you for having a father to criticize. Instead, he nodded, and said, “When you return, you will undoubtedly bring with you news that our Attic society can discuss.”

  “I expect that I shall be brimming with news,” laughed Hugh.

  Their group had grown from three to seven regular members, and now met once a month in a reserved room at the King’s Arms Tavern. Steven Safford, the establishment’s owner, was also a participant. Like Jack, he was a veteran of the Braddock debacle, and shared the planter’s views on politics, and also the same worries and doubts. He was a tall, thin man in his forties with sandy-blond hair and a forbidding, ascetic face. For years he had remained aloof from Caxton’s social and political life, rarely volunteering his opinion on anything. His reputation for solitude was nearly as notorious as Jack’s.

  One of his doubts had been of Hugh Kenrick’s value to Jack as a fri
end, until Jack accompanied Hugh one evening to the King’s Arms for supper and speculation. And, like Jack, Safford was won over to Hugh by his informed positions, his dedication to work, and a certain genuine quality in his character that belied his aristocratic background and bearing. He was astounded, after their formal introduction and hours of talk, that an aristocrat could be so likable and more than sympathetic with colonial views.

  “I shall also bring newspapers, and magazines, and perhaps even a copy of the North Briton,” Hugh said. Then his face brightened. “Perhaps my father was alluding to that paper and its author, John Wilkes, who is a member for Aylesbury. His paper constantly attacks Lord Bute and the government, my father writes, and he mentioned in a past letter that last November a general warrant was drawn up to arrest Mr. Wilkes and the printers of his paper on vague charges of libel, but it was withdrawn. I wonder if that matter has been revived.”

  He stood with his hands locked together behind his back at Jack’s library window, gazing thoughtfully out at the York River. Today it was a calm, still blue, broken now and then by a lone whitecap. The forests and fields far across the river were a spread of brown tinged with the green of spring.

  Jack, seated in an armchair near his desk, asked, “Why would they be arrested? Aside from speaking their minds, Mr. Wilkes is a member of Parliament. Are not members privileged against arrest, as our burgesses are here?”

  Hugh shook his head without turning around. “Not if they’ve been charged with treason, or murder, or breaching the peace. Near to treason is libeling members of the government, with intent to sedition.” Hugh paused, then turned to face Jack. “Of course, if one libels the king’s ministers, by implication one libels the king, and suggests that he is not fit to occupy the throne and ought to be removed from it. That was the nub of the charges against the Pippins…years ago.” He picked up a glass of brandy from the windowsill and finished it. Putting down the glass, he said, “If only Englishmen could divest themselves of that corpus mysticum, that tenacious, unreasoning aura of awe that envelops the subject of kings, they could make so much progress in their own liberties. And ours.” He paused again. “You have read my paper on that corpus mysticum, so I needn’t dwell on the subject.”