by Edward Cline
Reisdale said, “The only tax London will permit is the ad valorem the House impose on slaves brought in from neighboring colonies, and that is paid by the buyer, not the seller. This trade does not greatly affect the business of the slave merchants, so it does not greatly worry them.”
“There is talk in the capital of repealing the ten percent passed some five years ago,” mused Granby. “Again, that is a purchaser’s levy, not a merchant’s.”
Vishonn chuckled. “And that talk, sir, has arisen not long after the Governor gave his assent to a twenty percent ad valorem on neighborly slaves proposed by the House. In April, it was! What confusion!” exclaimed the planter, waving his hands in the air. “And what is more, we are obliged to tithe each slave as though he were a real person!”
Arthur Stannard said, “No slaves have even been imported here these past three years, not to my knowledge. There are many planters here who would like to see that stoppage made permanent, but I fear that at war’s end, slavers will be auctioning fresh loads of Negroes, from Norfolk to Richmond town.”
Hugh listened patiently to this outburst of complaints with an expression of near-indifference. Had the light of the supper room been truer, his guests might have imagined that his eyes expressed contempt.
When he thought they were finished, he glanced briefly at Jack Frake, then smiled and said, “Gentlemen, it is quite a congeries of conundrums that weighs you down. It calls for consummate contumacy.”
Thomas Reisdale, after a scoffing grunt, remarked, “You are in a gay, alliterative mood, sir!”
Hugh shrugged. “Some tragedies can be amusing, sir. Taking together the Crown’s venal means of trade, by which we are all captive traders, the Crown’s encouragement and sanction of slavery, the confiscatory method of payment for imported goods, the eight and one-third pence per pound duty on tobacco we send to England — well, all in all, I must concur with Mr. Frake here, that in the Crown’s jackdaw eye, we are but glorified factotums.”
Reece Vishonn opened his mouth to answer, but Hugh raised his hand and continued. “Allow me to ask you this question, sirs: Why do you not chafe under such circumstances? Oh, you do chafe — I have just heard some vigorous scratching — but is it any more than an annoying itch? By God, sirs, there is not one among you who would fail to challenge a sharper to a duel if you discovered that he had bilked you out of a fortune at cribbage! Yet, you allow the Crown to fit you into the bilboes of restraint and constant debt. We know what is the Crown’s advantage. What is yours? A near monopoly on the tobacco trade, and the occasional generosity of the drawback scheme, by which you are credited with the eight and one-third pence per pound if your tobacco is fortunate enough to be bought for transshipment to the Continent. For those dubious sops, you are expected to be grateful for your thralldom of debt and enforced dependency.”
Ralph Cullis began to speak, but, again, Hugh raised his hand, and continued. “Of course, you would rather have the liberty of choosing your own buyers, of demanding hard coin in payment, of shipping on French or Spanish or Dutch vessels, whose carriage would be infinitely cheaper, and of paying no duty at all.” He grinned slyly. “Do not tell me otherwise, sirs. I have worked both ends of this business, and speak from personal observation.” He paused. “I will tell you that I am ashamed of my country, for the fraudulence it practices on its most industrious sons!”
No one said anything for a while. All the men but Jack Frake sat staring at Hugh in astonishment. Jack also stared at him, but with pleased amazement. Only Ira Granby seemed to be contemplating a reply. At length, he said, “Well, sir…we have English law, through which we may strive to correct those…disparities.”
Hugh cocked his head. “Only insofar as the law recognizes your existence as an Englishman, Mr. Granby. And so far as that law allows, here in Virginia, or anywhere else in the colonies, you are a political bastard who may be tolerated, and perhaps even coddled and cajoled, so long as you do not complain, or become too familiar, or presumptuous about your legitimacy.”
Granby’s face turned red, while Vishonn’s turned ashen. Both men were gathering the courage to rise and leave, but were stopped when Thomas Reisdale commented, “This is true.”
Vishonn pursed his lips, then said, “You paint a hopeless picture, sir. But I do not believe our situation is as desperate as you depict.”
“As you wish,” answered Hugh.
Arthur Stannard said, “If I did not know you better, Mr. Kenrick, I would be tempted to believe that you are recommending a gross flouting of the laws.”
“The Crown regularly flouts your liberties, Mr. Stannard, and thus some portion of our excellent constitution, yours less so than those of our companions here.” Hugh shook his head once. “No, sir. I do not advocate anarchy. I am recommending at least an admission of what Mr. Granby has called ‘disparities.’ Someday the Privy Council and the king’s ministers may find the resolve and rationale to disallow all our liberties.”
Reece Vishonn sighed, and glanced at Hugh with a pitying look. “What dark and insinuating sentiments to harbor in the Empire’s brightest year, sir! You see devilish designs all about you, while we practical men observe only the natural course of things. Oh, yes, I concede that there exists some unfairness in our ancient arrangements with the mother country, and that some men in London overreach their mandate. But there is little that cannot be resolved between practical men!” He laughed. “Consider the business of empire, sir! What a farrago that must be! I don’t envy the fellows charged with its management. And, I honestly doubt that, should I sit on the Privy Council or the Board of Trade, I could do much better or otherwise myself! The Crown, you must know, must think and behave in extraordinary ways, for the good of the nation. We are that nation, sir, and I am not ashamed of my country, neither of England, nor of Virginia! I am proud to be a subject of its empire!” exclaimed the planter. “Proud, and grateful to boot!”
Ralph Cullis leaned forward and said, “And, consider this question, Mr. Kenrick: How many Frenchmen have the liberty to compose addresses to King Louis, or the opportunity to send memorials to his parlement?”
“Very few, Mr. Granby,” Hugh said. “I cannot even remember when the last parlement sat. But, an absence of liberty in one nation is not to be measured against the incremental loss of it in another.”
“Speaking of France,” Reisdale said tentatively, “and of empires. Recently a friend and correspondent of mine in London sent me a transcript of an address to the Sorbonne in Paris, by a prior of that institution, some ten years ago. Oh, what is its title now? Yes, I remember! Tableau philosophique des progrés successifs de l’sprit humain. The fellow’s name? Yes, Turgot. Anne-Robert-Jacques Turgot.”
Vishonn chuckled. “Are you going to assault us with more French wisdom, Mr. Reisdale? I must declare, you are a veritable repository of obscure erudition!”
“Obscure erudition has often trounced conventional wisdom, sir,” said the attorney with a smile. “To a London lighterman, Sir Newton’s natural observations may comprise a compendium of arcane learning, but that erudition will affect that fellow’s life nonetheless.”
“Well, sir, what did this cleric say that you’re so eager for us to hear?”
Reisdale paused to relight his pipe. “Well, the title explains itself. The address was a literal hymn to our age — at least to its accumulation of wisdom. One remark in it stands out in my mind, and always will. Mr. Kenrick’s dark but frank sentiments lured it from its hiding place. It has a bearing on his imagined devilish designs — and also what Mr. Frake here spoke to us about at the ball.”
Vishonn, Granby, and Cullis all glanced at Jack. Vishonn said, “Sir, you are strangely quiet, by the bye. Have you nothing to say?”
Jack smiled serenely and looked briefly at Hugh. “My neighbor and host speaks for me, Mr. Vishonn, and very ably.”
Hugh nodded in acknowledgment.
“You are in agreement with his sentiments?”
“Had I his talent
for speech, I might have expressed them in the same manner.”
“Don’t doubt your talent for that, sir,” said Vishonn with humor. “It seems that Caxton now has two fellows who are comfortable with teasing treason.” He turned to Reisdale. “Well, sir, what did this Frenchman say that you wish us to hear?”
“He said — and it is a remarkable simile,” prefaced the attorney, “’Colonies are like fruit, which clings to the tree only until it is ripe. By becoming self-sufficient, they do what Carthage did, what America will sometime do.’”
Granby frowned. “Do what, sir?”
“Why, fall from the tree, sir,” Reisdale said.
Ralph Cullis groaned, as if in pain. Reece Vishonn’s face contorted in incredulity. Ira Granby made a contemptuous, spitting sound. “What rot!” he muttered.
Vishonn chuckled again. “What fantastic ideas come from a most unlikely venue!” he remarked. “A bureaucrat advocating that! And a Papist priest, no less! Well, we are not self-sufficient, so we cannot fall.”
Hugh looked thoughtful. “I must read this Frenchman’s address some time, Mr. Reisdale.”
“I would gladly lend you the transcript, sir.”
“I must disagree with him, however, at least on that one point.” Hugh reached over and moved the silver epergne closer, and demonstrated his words by touching parts of the serving dish. “I see our empire as a human and political manifestation of this piece of table furniture — the colonies, these tiers made of the best crystal, the crystal of English science and enterprise and arts, holding all the fruits of our nation, fixed firmly to the silver trunk of English law refined and made clear and just.” He paused. “Abbé Turgot neglected to mention that ripened fruit will also shrivel or putrefy, whether it has been picked, poached, or has fallen. It is not a perfect simile, which should precisely match the object of allusion in cause, consequence, and condition.”
“Well, sir!” exclaimed Vishonn happily, “at last you say something with which I can agree!” He reached across the table and took a few candied dates from the epergne. “But, good lord, sir — you are a worrisome fellow!” He popped a date into his mouth and chewed it noisily.
Granby and Cullis also smiled in relief and made similar remarks.
“I concede that,” Reisdale said. “But, nonetheless, Abbé Turgot’s point is novel, and, well, shall we say…revolutionary?”
“True,” said Hugh. “And I hope that the simile is his only failing. I look forward to perusing his address.” He then abruptly steered the conversation away from politics to plantation matters. He rose after a while and invited his guests on a tour of the grounds around the house, and pointed out what repairs and improvements he was having made. Reece Vishonn and the others complimented him on the condition of the estate, and reminisced about their past visits to Brougham Hall, which once rivaled Enderly in the town’s social life.
At last the planters took their leave, thanking Hugh from their saddles for his hospitality and inviting him to call on them in the near future.
* * *
“See?” said Reece Vishonn when he was certain they were out of earshot along the main road that led from the house. “I told you that the chap was no recusant. Not a bit of one.”
“He’s a fly fellow, though,” said Ralph Cullis, “ and threapish, as well. I’d wager he could talk Reverend Acland down from his pulpit and convince him to write love notes to Monsieur Voltaire!”
Ira Granby chuckled as they rode past a harvested tobacco field. “Keeping this place up will mellow his views,” he said. “In a few years, he may even begin to sound like you, sir,” he added, glancing at Vishonn.
“Perhaps,” said the senior planter. “You are likely right. His views and ardor need topping, just as our tobacco does. They will be topped, I am sure of it. Don’t you doubt it, either, gentlemen. He’ll advertise soon enough for anew overseer, or come to us requesting a loan of one of ours.”
Cullis said, after a pensive hum, “ I say that he remains worrisome — and disturbing. If he put his mind and ardor to it, he could rile the other planters and growers here. Even the townsfolk.”
Vishonn turned in his saddle with a perplexed frown. “On what occasion, sir?” he asked. “Over what matter?”
“A political occasion,” answered Cullis. “I believe there is some truth in what he and Mr. Frake have said recently. When the war is over, I believe we will witness more politicking here than any man would wish to endure.” He paused. “I don’t know over what matters…but I fear it all the same.”
Thomas Reisdale, who rode alongside Arthur Stannard in the rear, said, “Disturbance is not always a thing to be feared or avoided, sirs. It has the bracing effect of reminding one that what one takes for granted, such as our liberties, may be taken away, as surely as water sinks into sand.” Vishonn laughed. “Is that another of your Gallic sweetmeats, Mr. Reisdale?”
“No, sir,” said the attorney. “It is a morsel of English wisdom. Or Virginian, if you prefer, and I am its author.”
“I quite appreciated Mr. Kenrick’s simile of the epergne,” remarked Stannard. “So much so, that I intend to write my firm in London about it. There are men in the Commons who may be able to employ it to good effect — should the occasion ever arise. Though I am less certain than is Mr. Cullis that it ever will.”
“Strictly speaking, Mr. Stannard,” Reisdale said, “it was an analogy that our host demonstrated. And an excellent one, too. Your men in the Commons may be able to put it over all the gentlemen there — should the occasion call for it.”
“‘Put it over,’ sir?” queried Stannard, a little offended. “Why, you are ascribing what sounds like dishonest oratory to a man you have not even heard speak.”
“Sharp persuasion it may be, sir — depending on the intent of the speaker and the honesty of the gentlemen of the Commons. The analogy, you see, is not perfect, either. I don’t much like the idea of being plucked like a confection from a bowl by the Crown, though many in the Commons may find that idea both attractive and expedient.” His four companions turned to look at Reisdale. “Beware, sirs!” he added with a smile. “Castor and Pollux are among us now! Or, if you prefer, Cato and Cicero!”
Reece Vishonn sighed and turned to face the front. He exclaimed, “God spare us the company of scholars and lawyers!”
Chapter 11: The Olympians
After the first breathless astonishment of discovering all that one has in common with another, comes the mutual, happy knowledge that the commonalities overshadow the multitude of differences, and that the former render the latter irrelevant, for they have a deeper, more vigorous foundation for friendship than have happenstance, coincidence, or accident. Such a friendship becomes an inviolate continuum. When it is born, the world seems a saner, cleaner, and more welcoming place. The wearisome, aching partner of loneliness is instantly abandoned and forgotten. Virtues, aspirations, and experiences mesh hungrily and effortlessly for the discoverers, and become the fast norms by which all other friendships are judged. Other men, together with their society and concerns, become intrusive, almost amusing annoyances, to be endured with a civility that defines their beginning and end. Warming affection and genuine graciousness are reserved for those who mirror one’s soul.
To be reciprocated in this manner is a rare, priceless reward for all the tests and pains of isolation one has known in the past. Distant, elusive oughts abruptly become palpable is’s. One then feels a right to laugh in recollection of those who dream without contributing any personal substance to their professed visions — provided one remembers to think of them.
Reece Vishonn was alert enough to sense the commonalities shared by Jack Frake and Hugh Kenrick, but insensible to their common roots.
* * *
Hugh Kenrick and Jack Frake stood in the yard in front of the house and watched the planters amble on horseback down the main road. The winter sun was beginning its rapid descent in the west, and chilling breezes from the north swept off the York River
and whipped around the corners of the outbuildings.
Jack glanced at Hugh. “They must be relieved, now that they know that you don’t plan to put Caxton to the torch, Mr. Kenrick,” he remarked. “They half expect me to.”
Hugh smiled in amusement. “They frighten easily, Mr. Frake, and are consoled too quickly. It will take some extraordinary event or speech to enrage them.”
Jack nodded once. “The peril we see is not quite real to them.” Hugh sighed. “They are comfortable in their dependency. Complacency has dulled their sensibilities, as much as would a monteith of rum.”
“I am afraid that the peril must first come beating down their doors, before they can believe it exists, and grasp that they won’t be exempt from its depredations.” Jack paused in thought. “Until they do believe it, they won’t be whole men — and we will be the town’s moonrakers.”
Hugh smiled again, and folded his arms against the chill. “Moonrakers! Are we the cause of their uneasiness, Mr. Frake? Or is it the Crown?”
“Both, I imagine,” Jack said. “We are, because we are not in awe of the Crown. The Crown is, because we remind them that it does not stand in awe of their liberties.”
“If we are to ever have an enduring empire, it must be founded on a polity that does.”
“Not the Crown?”
Hugh shook his head. “Not the Crown itself.” He paused. “It is time that men advanced beyond kings and crowns and ancient privileges.”
This time Jack smiled. “I am certain that your ideal empire is not feasible, Mr. Kenrick. I mind very much the notion of my being some placeman’s handy confection. If Parliament could ever be persuaded of the value and wisdom of your arrangement, it would be only because its members and their constituencies saw in it a means to satisfy their appetites for colonial sweetmeats. To heed reason, these men must see something in it to gain for themselves — at our expense. Then, of course, it would not be reason they heeded, but a…circumspect, dissembling expediency.” Jack shook his head. “If there is little prospect of political gain, they will never sanction your empire of reason.”
