Hugh Kenrick

by Edward Cline

  And then he remembered two things: that the name of the essay by Johnson was “The Advantages of Living in a Garret,” and that the odd-looking man he had seen in Cottle’s Bookshop on Cockspur Street, and the man to whom he had absently handed his unfinished glass of claret in Ranelagh Gardens and said “True enough!” were one and the same man.

  And Glorious Swain lived in a garret. It was on the fifth floor of a house in Quiller Alley, in the shadow of St. Paul’s Cathedral, in between Little Carter Lane and Nightrider Street. He had spent many evenings there, on Swain’s invitation, to talk, to read, to browse through his friend’s collection of books and especially his copy of Hyperborea. He missed having his own copy of it at hand; he was as attached to the work as others were to their bibles, and for the same reasons: it was a source of hope, of consolation, of inspiration, of proof. It was a quiet street, in whose houses lived mostly Quakers. Swain taught children to read, write, and cipher in the little Friends’ chapel on the corner. When Hugh visited and in time reached for a volume of Hyperborea, Swain, understanding, would retire to another corner of the room to read, or go out on errands, leaving Hugh alone.

  Today, a Sunday, Swain sat at his cramped desk in a corner of his room to work on the Society’s minutes. He had chaired the last meeting, and was responsible for fleshing out the topic of the speaker and the main points of the ensuing discussion. Yesterday, Tobius had given the address, “An Analogy on the Window Tax and the Newspaper Stamp Tax, or Knowledge Penalized.” This task Swain could do from memory, as any member could, for the talks and discussions were memorable and aided by each recording member’s personal shorthand. There were ten volumes of the club’s minutes, spanning almost forty years. These were kept on a secret bookshelf in Elspeth’s—Beverly Brashears’—bookshop on the Strand. Elspeth merely took possession of them, without any of the members knowing where they were kept.

  Hugh received a letter from his father informing him, among other things, that the Brunes would be staying at Windridge Court,

  “…As our guests, nearly, for a fraction of what they would pay at the Bear Inn or other hostelry. I know you will be an irreproachable host. I have sent instructions to the steward, Mr. Dolman, who I suppose must now be raised to major domo, to prepare for the Brunes’ arrival and stay…Now that Dr. Comyn’s has recessed for the season, you should plan on a stay in Danvers for a while. We must discuss sending you to Oxford (or even to Cambridge, if you’ve a mind to) in a year or so. And I should like you to spend some time with me on this end of the business. We might even embark on a short tour of the Continent to see some of France, Prussia, and Holland, before hostilities grow nasty and render those places inhospitable…

  “I have before me Dr. Comyn’s report on you, and those of the several instructors. They all exude the odor of laurels, except for Mr. Cavie’s, your composition tutor, who does not fault your skills but claims that you engaged him in a terrific trading of broadsides in class over some novel moral point. He claims that he was obliged to force you to strike your colors, lest you utter some treasonous sentiment. You must tell me what were the circumstances that would cause Mr. Cavie to make such a grave charge, for he does not relate them in his report, nor does he elucidate the point which has so upset him, other than to refer to your utterances as those of a Pelagian recidivist. Perhaps he is afraid that he could be accused of treason, too. I’m sure that your explanation will be quite amusing…”

  Chapter 27: The Lovers

  THE AIR WAS FILLED WITH THE SHRIEK OF MASSED FIFES, THE THUDDING of a dozen drums, and the shrill, banshee-like commands of sergeant-majors. The sky was unusually blue and cloudless, and the sun flashed from fixed bayonets, polished cap plates and gorgets, and clean white cross belts. A gentle but constant breeze stirred the pristine colors of the assembled regiments. Proud colonels sat stiffly in their saddles, each confident that the king would pay him and his regiment a compliment.

  On the green Parade Grounds beyond Whitehall stood the broad matte of scarlet, drawn up in silent ranks at hair-trigger attention: regulars, grenadiers, fusiliers, and mounted dragoons. In the center of this crimson rectangle were poised six artillery pieces and their gun crews. Their rear was guarded by newly raised regiments from the various counties, including London or Middlesex. To one side of them stood a battalion of Highlanders in kilts and bonnets. Largely commanded by untried English officers, many of the Scots’ claymore-wielding sergeants and corporals, veterans of the Jacobite Rebellion, would later discreetly advise their superiors in the art of war. Only two units knew their destinations and dates of embarkation; one regiment of regulars was to be sent to reinforce the garrison at Gibraltar, while the Highlanders were to fight the French in North America.

  Facing this invincible-looking army was a cluster of men astride magnificently appointed mounts: a small man with protruding eyes and a recessed forehead, His Royal Highness, King George II; a stout man on his left, with a deceptively lazy glance and a permanent pout, who was his son, the Duke of Cumberland; to the king’s right, a young man, George William, Prince of Wales, and grandson of the king; another young man, Edward, George William’s brother; John Stuart, third Earl of Bute, future Groom of the Stole, the young princes’ tutor, and, some said, the Princess of Wales’ secret paramour; Thomas Pelham-Holles, the Duke of Newcastle, formerly Secretary of State and now First Lord of the Treasury. Madame Walmoden, or Lady Yarmouth, the king’s German mistress, watched it all from the privacy of a splendid coach-and-six, for she was stouter than even the Duke of Cumberland and did not sit well on a horse. Waiting on this galaxy of notables was a multitude of royal and ministerial functionaries.

  The latest number of the London Gazette, the government’s official newspaper—never confused by its readers with any of a handful of other newspapers subsidized by a secret service fund—carried this announcement:

  A grand review of new and old regiments of foot and horse, and of artillery, will commence at two o’clock next Tuesday on the Parade Grounds near Whitehall, attended by His Most Gracious Majesty, and his son, the Duke of Cumberland, and the Royal Family, with maneuvers and a demonstration of fire-arms to display the efficacy of our forces now valorously engaging the enemy in many quarters of the globe.

  On the edge of the field, behind a cordon of grenadiers, milled a large crowd of spectators, drawn there by the announcement. Many came from patriotism, others from a desire to catch a glimpse of the king and other persons whose names figured so prominently in the newspapers and gossip.

  Reverdy Brune was there for both reasons.

  “What do you wish to do?” Hugh Kenrick had asked her that morning, a day after she, her mother, and her brother arrived at Windridge Court. The four sat together at the breakfast table. One of the Earl’s Parliamentary privileges was the free delivery of the London Gazette to his residence, whether or not he was in London. The latest edition of it lay on the damask before Reverdy. She pointed to the announcement. “That!” she said, her eyes wide with excitement. “I have never seen His Majesty, only that fat son of his that time you riled him at Danvers, and this may be my only chance!” She glanced once at her mother, who nodded approval, and at her brother, who added, “Yes. It would be a grand way to begin our visit.”

  Mrs. Brune and her son, James, both understood that Reverdy would be the chief object of their host’s hospitality. Mrs. Brune, who did not like London, came as a chaperone, but did not mind the inconvenience if it helped to cement the bond between her daughter and Hugh Kenrick, and so guarantee the union of the Brunes and the Kenricks. James Brune, who had visited the city many times before, had come on business, and was not so much interested in sightseeing as guaranteeing his family’s solvency and future prosperity.

  Hugh took the paper and read the announcement. The Gazette was not a paper he read regularly; it was usually full of addresses to the king, admonishments, blandishments, and bankruptcies. He smiled. “Of course,” he answered. “But we should be there early enough to guarante
e ourselves a view unobstructed by hats and perukes. Shall we make a picnic of it?”

  Reverdy grinned and clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, yes!”

  Hugh had another reason for the caution and suggestion: Hulton, who he thought could very well be in one of the new regiments.

  But as the regiments marched onto the field to the tunes of “Lilliburlero” and “The Bottom of the Punchbowl” to form the great square, he did not espy the face of his former valet in any of the slow-marching companies that passed directly in front of him. Hulton was not here today.

  Hugh pointed out to his companions the Dragoon Guards, the Horse Grenadier Guards, and the Foot Guards. “They comprise about one-half of the only standing army in this country,” he explained. “These other regiments are ‘marching regiments’ that can be sent anywhere—to the Mediterranean, to the Continent, to North America. Or to Ireland, where they would more or less leave the Duke’s command and come under that of the Lord Lieutenant’s there.”

  Reverdy broke her sight away from the review and studied him with a wistful smile. “Hugh,” she said, “you would look so smart in scarlet, and wearing a gorget, smarter than any of these ensigns!” A gorget was an embossed, crescent-shaped metal plaque worn by line officers beneath their throats, signifying their rank. It was a remnant of the age of armored knights. An ensign was a subaltern who carried a regiment’s colors.

  Hugh grinned. “But I do wear one,” he replied. “It is not so invisible as you might think. It is here.” He pointed to his forehead. Reverdy looked doubtful. He added, “There are battles of the intellect to be fought, Reverdy, for king, country, and liberty. One day I may captain a troop of thinkers who will solve our country’s most grievous problems, which are ignorance and power.” He gestured to the scarlet square and the banners. “This is but one way to fight a war.” He tapped his forehead again. “This is another, and the most important. A mind can accrue honor, too, and carry its own colors, and be proud of its traditions and history. So, you see, I am an ensign in our country’s most important standing army—for how secure can a country be without its thinkers? No duke or king or board of generals or even Parliament can order it broken or disbanded, not without committing tyranny.”

  Reverdy held his glance, stunned by the music of his words and the emotion beneath his confession. This was another reason why she was drawn to him, without any seeming choice by her in the matter.

  Hugh said, “I own that I am partial to the martial pageantry we see here today. I have been fighting a war all my life—you know this—and will always.” He paused. “You must know that, for the future.”

  Reverdy, her eyes half shut as though she were looking into the sun, nodded once. She wished to say something, but could not think of anything that could match his words.

  Hugh smiled. “You are one of the very few persons who has recognized the imperial crown on my own gorget, and paid it the esteem it is due. And your esteem is most especial and the closest to my heart.”

  Reverdy touched his hand once, and looked away. Her mother and brother were next to them, in a conversation of their own about the condition of the regiments, and could not hear what had been said. For a moment, Reverdy was deaf to the fifes and drums and commotion on the field. She closed her eyes in acknowledgment of what had been said. Then there was a flourish of drums, and the king and his retinue moved to inspect the troops. Watching the distant figures, she said, “I shall imagine that you are out there, in front of your own men, not as a captain, but as a colonel.”

  Regimental colors dipped in salute as the sovereign passed by each regiment, and colonels and other officers removed their hats and bowed their heads. The bandsmen struck up “Johnny Cope.”

  “And you would still not bow to the Duke, or even to the King?” asked Reverdy.

  “Not now,” replied Hugh. “Not ever.” He listened to the fifes and drums. “I like that tune. I would choose it as my regiment’s own.”

  “It’s lively, and happy,” agreed Reverdy. “It makes me feel like dancing.” She glanced down and saw the toe of one of his shoes tapping the grass in rhythm. “And you,” she added with a grin.

  The first rank of soldiers moved six steps forward to make room for the king and his party to inspect the second rank. Now the band played “Westering Home.”

  “Oh, what a pretty tune!” exclaimed Reverdy. “It’s almost a lullaby.”

  “A soldier’s last lullaby,” remarked Hugh.

  There was some jostling behind them. “See the muster of whores’ whelps!” said a spectator in a loud voice.

  “One-parent wonders, all of them!” chimed in another.

  “Gutter gleanings,” agreed still another. “I’ll wager old Georgie wishes he could teach them to march like Hessian geese!”

  Hugh, Reverdy, and her mother and brother turned in unison to face the speakers. Hugh saw that they were idle dandies, gentlemen of no particular means and probably candidates for debtors’ prison.

  Before he could say anything, Reverdy accosted them angrily. “Is that anything to say about men who could die for your king, country, and liberties, sirs?”

  The leader of the group blinked in surprise and touched his hat. “My apologies, milady, if we offended your sensibilities, but I do not ask them to die for me or much else, except for what may be their hearts’ content.”

  “If they got a good look at you, sir, I believe they would have second thoughts, too! You are ignorant, and a model of dissipation and ingratitude!”

  “Most assuredly, milady,” replied the leader. “We answer to your description!” But he bowed slightly to Reverdy. “We shall remove ourselves to another vantage point, and hope not to encounter another Amazon.” He turned and led his companions through the crowd to another place down the line of spectators.

  After the intruders had lost themselves in the throng, Reverdy glanced at Hugh, who was studying her with admiration. “Why did you not speak up?”

  Hugh laughed. “You spoke my mind before I could, and vanquished the rogue before I could draw my sword!”

  Mrs. Brune leaned over and said to her daughter, “Reverdy, that is not the behavior of a lady!”

  “No, Mother,” replied Reverdy, “but it ought to be.”

  Mrs. Brune gasped, but said nothing else.

  They turned to watch the review again. When the king had finished inspecting the Highlanders, he and his retinue trotted back to their original places. “He couldn’t be too pleased to see so many Scots in one place,” remarked James Brune, addressing Hugh. “And there are more Scottish officers there than I had ever imagined he would approve.”

  “They are mostly Lowlanders,” answered Hugh, “or so I have heard, as are probably your future partners, McLeod and McDougal.”

  One by one, on command, the regiments aimed their muskets into the air and fired a deafening volley. Then the cannon were fired—without ball—and their smoke joined that of the muskets to drift through the crowd of spectators. Finally, the dragoons left the formation and trotted twice in close order around the square. Then trumpeters sounded the charge, and the dragoons galloped off the field to the applause and cheers of the crowd.

  The king dismounted and boarded the coach-and-six, and his son and the retinue, with a troop of Horse Guards, escorted the sovereign from the field. As the regiments marched out in another direction, the crowd began to disperse. Hugh and his party were the last to leave the Parade Grounds.

  * * *

  The Brunes stayed for a month. What enabled Hugh to enjoy their visit more and act as a gracious host was a letter he received from Hulton. Hugh had written to or visited almost every justice of the peace in London, for when a man enlisted in any of the land forces he was required by law to be taken by the recruiting officer or sergeant to a magistrate to confirm or deny his enlistment. Many of the magistrates had had their clerks dig through piles of paperwork to no avail, and written Hugh letters of regret. Others simply took his fee and never bothered to eithe
r search or reply. When Hulton’s letter arrived, Hugh had nearly exhausted his resources.

  Hulton, he learned, had enlisted in the 71st Foot, a regiment raised with a government levy by a Colonel Beckwith. He had spent the winter and spring in camp in Devon, but his regiment was soon to depart with other units to the mustering camp on the Isle of Wight.

  “I am writing this with borrowed quill and paper, for as you know when a man takes the shilling the costs of his clothes and shoes and such are deducted from his pay which is a few pence a day. These stoppages are the greatest cause of desertion. So I cannot afford to buy my own writing materials. Because I can write some officers employ me to help write their reports, so I am in less debt to the colonel than most of my mates. The colonel and captains know where we are to go soon, but do not tell us where or when. I did not say in my letter to you what regiment I enlisted in, for I did not want you or his Excellency your father to bail me out, as I knew you would try. This is my own choice…Thomas Hulton, Pvt., 71st Foot, Devon Camp.”

  The letter was dated a month ago. It was with some relief, and a sad smile, that Hugh read it, and filed it with his correspondence.

  * * *

  The month-long idyll was punctuated by Hugh’s obligations to Benjamin Worley and Lion Key. Every other day he would leave the Brunes to entertain themselves and work in Worley’s warehouse, on the account books, or to deal with ship captains and other merchants. He had taken the Brunes on a tour of the Lawful Keys and the various Exchanges, introduced them to Worley, and even had Worley and his wife to supper at Windridge Court, where the men talked thickly and eagerly of interest rates, tariffs, the war’s likely effect on trade, and other business matters. Mrs. Brune was not entirely pleased with this side of her future son-in-law, and resented the familiarity with which Mr. Worley associated with Hugh. She said nothing about it, either to Reverdy or to Hugh, but made some desultory remarks in private to her son, James. She found no ally in him, either.