SH02_Hugh Kenrick

by Edward Cline

  “I second that idea,” said Muir.

  All the men, including Hugh, reached into their pockets or purses and, a moment later, presented Mathius with a handful of crowns. Mathius accepted the money. He was shocked to see a golden guinea among the coins. This had been donated by Hugh, though he did not know this. “You…are the most generous friends a man could have,” he said, his head bowed.

  “Will you still be able to write up tonight’s minutes, Mathius?” asked Steven. “One of us could volunteer to perform the task. And it is your turn to chair our next meeting.”

  “She is buried,” replied Mathius plaintively, “and the task will help me to…rediscover my regular frame of mind. Yes, the next meeting… It will be all right. Thank you for the offer.”

  “Very well.” After the members agreed on the date of their next meeting, Steven picked up the ornamented walking stick and struck the floor once with it. “Gentlemen of the Society, our usual concluding toast would mock the sad occasion, and we shall forgo it this one instance. We will meet again on this same date in August. Claude, it will be your turn to challenge our minds then. Steven, you will please act as recorder.”

  The members rose and left the room one by one.

  When he left the Fruit Wench that evening, Mathius hired a hackney that took him to the home of the Marquis of Bilbury, where, from Brice Blissom, he received the gratitude of the young aristocrat, a promise, and a small sack of money, in exchange for the Society’s ledger of minutes and an oral report on the meeting itself. No one suspected that William Horlick had resigned that evening from the Society of the Pippin.

  * * *

  As no member of the Society of the Pippin knew the marital status of his colleagues, nor their professions, nor their places of residence, nor even their names, no member could have known, or even suspected, that Mathius had lied—that he was married to a hectoring, “whither-go-ye?” woman who begrudged her husband his every free moment and nagged him constantly to abandon writing and find a more secure trade, that he had recently been dismissed from his part-time position with the wine merchant, and that beneath his mild, amenable, tolerant personality seethed envy for Hugh Kenrick’s mind and eloquence, and jealousy for the special esteem paid him by the Society.

  No member had reason to doubt Mathius. His wife’s alleged illness and death could explain the man’s erratic behavior over the last few months. Glorious Swain did not suspect the truth; nor did Hugh. They stayed behind in the tavern, and talked about things they had in common. At one point, Swain suggested, “You ought to think of publishing a book of some of your ideas, my friend. Under another name, of course. You have the means, and need no patron.”

  It was so obviously feasible an idea that Hugh was astonished that he had not had it himself. His face brightened. Then he frowned. “It would need to be published in the Netherlands,” he said after a moment. “I don’t believe any printer here would risk it. You heard Mathius. My theme disturbed him, and he is a friend. Think of how the clergy would sputter about it, and all the High Tories.” Then he shook his head once. “No, not yet, Mr. Swain. Abraham was right, too: What I have to say, needs system. And you were right: I have tonight expressed merely the elements of a philosophy, shown you the unassembled parts of a golden orrery, and I am not certain I have them all. There are so many links and connections that must be made clearer in my own mind first, before I could put them on paper and broadcast them to the world.”

  Swain took his mug of ale and clicked it against Hugh’s. “And a golden orrery it will be, sir, when you have completed that task, an orrery, not for comprehending the sun and its children, but for serving as a guide for men to grasp a reason and means for living. It will employ all the limbs of philosophy.”

  “But I don’t want to be a philosopher,” protested Hugh.

  Glorious Swain laughed. And Hugh, realizing the irony of his own words, joined him in the laughter.

  “My friend,” said Swain, “these are exciting times! I feel fortunate to have witnessed them. I thank you for that.”

  Chapter 29: The Idyll

  ON THE LAST DAY OF JULY, HUGH KENRICK STOPPED BY LION KEY TO BID Benjamin Worley farewell until September. Worley, however, boarded the family coach with him and gave Hugh some letters and business papers to deliver to his father. He left the coach on the Surrey side of London Bridge and shook Hugh’s hand through the window. “Give my regards to milord and his lady, sir!” With another snap of the coachman’s whip, the coach rumbled away again to begin the long leg to Canterbury.

  From his window, Hugh watched the city recede. In the still summer air, a vast, unmoving lid of brown and black lay over the city, as though preparing to suffocate it. It was created by the thousands of fires in taverns, coffeehouses, the kitchens of homes, and manufacturing establishments. The mass of St. Paul’s loomed beneath the lid, a dirty gray silhouette commanding the countless spikes of church steeples and columns. This was not one of London’s “glorious” days. Hugh was glad to be leaving the city, if only for a while.

  He had received a letter a few days before from his father, who reported that business correspondents in Sweden and France sent him news of the imminent invasion of Saxony by Frederick of Prussia, and that this had caused him to cancel plans for a short tour of the Continent.

  “Our progress through the towns and countries would be impeded by military mischief and civil suspicion,” he explained to Hugh. “We could even conceivably be detained as spies by one side of the hostilities or the other, and our return delayed by months. We shall, however, undertake a tour in the future, when all the grandees have tired of their destructive bravado and peace reigns again. There is so much to see and learn across the Channel in the way of libraries and art and modes of society, and I regret not having introduced you to them sooner. For example, in Germany, in the cathedral at Weltenburg, there stands at the entrance a gold equestrian of St. George slaying a serpentine dragon. It is by the Asam brothers, and faces inward, just inside the main doors, a most unusual but effective setting. I saw it once, when I was your age, and have not seen its like on our isle. I believe you would appreciate the work, for you, to judge by some of your remarks at Dr. Comyn’s school, seem predisposed to slay some of the serpents at large in this nation…”

  Garnet Kenrick had ended the letter with a warning. “Your uncle may precede your return to London, or follow it, in order to attend Lords and maintain his connections there…”

  The warning did not concern Hugh. Justice, he was learning, demanded cold action forged by the ceaseless bellows of moral judgment. He would never speak to his uncle again.

  He enjoyed his holiday at home, despite the awkward necessity of boycotting his uncle in the house and on the grounds of the estate. He took his meals with his parents and sister, Alice, or alone when his family could not avoid sharing a table with the Earl. But he shared with his parents the unspoken irony of imposing on his uncle the same punishment his uncle had imposed on him many years ago. Basil Kenrick dared not speak of Hugh’s constant absence, even though he could see his nephew from a window coming and going around the house and grounds. It was a subject he did not wish to discuss. He himself behaved as though Hugh was nowhere near Danvers; indeed, as though he did not exist.

  Only the servants talked about the alienation of affection they had observed between the Earl and his nephew, and whispered about it in huddled secrecy in the kitchen and their own quarters. Owen Runcorn, raised to major domo of the Baron’s staff, headed the faction that sided with Hugh and his parents; Alden Curle, major domo of the Earl’s staff, headed the faction of servants who sided with the Earl. Curle endured Runcorn’s sly insinuations and subtle taunts, for not only did he know that he was party to the commission of a wrong, but that Runcorn could lay him low in no time, if their own animosity ever erupted into physical violence.

  Hugh showed his father his sketches for the “temple” to Reverdy. Garnet Kenrick approved of the project, but with the remark, “It
will never become a reality so long as your uncle has title to these grounds.”

  Hugh had shrugged. “Then I shall wait until he is dead.” He spoke with the same indifference he might have felt for an aged sheep.

  His father and he discussed his future education, once he had finished another year at Dr. Comyn’s. “I think,” said the Baron, “you would do well at either Oxford or Cambridge. You would be admitted to either without difficulty.”

  Hugh sensed reticence beneath his father’s confident assertion. “But—what are your fears?”

  The Baron smiled, amused that his son could detect his reservations. “That you would be sent down from either school for voicing unconventional wisdom,” he said. “For branding the hands of your masters there, so to speak. These are Crown schools, and no matter what wild rumors of profligacy and dissipation one may hear about the gentlemen who attend them, those boys and men emerge from them with the Tory stamp of approval deeply seared on their foreheads. You would need to hold your tongue and stay your pen. You would more likely put all those young bucks and their instructors to shame—and yourself out, in disgrace.”

  Hugh felt glad that his father knew him so well. “What are the alternatives?”

  They were on horseback, pausing by a pond created half a century ago by Hugh’s grandfather. The Baron had ridden with Hugh over the farthest reaches of the landscaped grounds of Danvers to decide what pruning and trimming tasks needed to be assigned next to the groundskeepers. Their mounts drank thirstily from the pond. Around them were stands of willow, alder, and poplar, and beyond them, on higher, drier ground, were clusters of oak, ash, and beech. Some swans marked time on the other side of the pond, waiting for the intruders to leave. Robins and nightingales flitted from tree to tree under the cloudless, warm sky.

  “Edinburgh,” said the Baron, “which is acquiring a reputation for its learning, and for encouraging unconventional but useful thought. I have heard smart things said about that university. And, there is the university at Leyden, in Holland. Dissenters of all suasions send their sons there, barred as they are from the universities here. You would, I think, be happier at one of those schools, and not need play the Argonaut Meleager and slay every Calydonian bore who raised his silly head or hand against you. You would not only acquire a first-rate education, but probably associate daily with persons of like temperament and mind, and, perhaps, even make some friends there. Oh! Look!”

  The Baron pointed to a robin that had flown from its nest in one tree. High above it, a sparrowhawk appeared out of nowhere, circled once, then swooped down in a dead drop and captured the surprised and luckless robin in its talons. The sparrowhawk swept back up in a violent arch not ten feet from the ground, rose swiftly, then leveled off and flew back over the trees to disappear with its prey.

  Hugh said, “There is a merchantman called the Sparrowhawk, that anchored at Mr. Worley’s key. I met the captain, Mr. Ramshaw.” He glanced with his own amused smile at his father. “I am not incapable of friendship, Father. I have made friends in London. Seven, to be exact.”

  The Baron looked penitent. “I did not think you were incapable, Hugh,” he replied. “However, they must be unusual persons. I should like to meet them, someday.”

  “They are a society of thinkers. I chanced upon them last year. Perhaps, when you next go to London, I could introduce you to at least one of them. They are every bit as free-thinking as many on Dr. Comyn’s staff.”

  The Baron asked, “Are they teachers, as well?”

  Hugh grinned. “I do not know what are their trades or professions, and they do not know who I am. We know each other only by club names. I am treated as an equal, in mind and in spirit.”

  Garnet Kenrick studied his son with undisguised astonishment. “Seven, you say? And, as an equal?” He laughed. “Dear me, I shall have to revise my estimate of humanity, Hugh! Think of it! Seven men exist who practically contradict one of Mr. Newton’s laws!” He reined his horse away from the pond, and smiled broadly. He was happy that his son had found friends, happy that Hugh was happy. “Of course, you know,” he said as Hugh joined him on a circuit of the pond, “that if you were His Majesty, and I a mere general, I would not be allowed to turn my back on you, as I just did, not even if I were mounted, as I am. I would need to have trained my steed here to walk backwards, away from the royal presence, so that I would not impute cowardice or unworthiness to His Majesty. There is a humorous anecdote concerning Judge Charles Pratt, who rode with the king to a review, and could not get his mount to stop backing into His Majesty…”

  Roger Tallmadge was excited to see his friend again, and about one other thing: His older brother, Francis, had been appointed a cornet in the Duke of Cumberland’s Own Regiment of Horse. He laughed when he saw the look of shock on Hugh’s face.

  “How was that accomplished?” asked Hugh.

  They were alone together in a field on the Tallmadge estate, hunting for partridge and grouse for the Tallmadge kitchen. Each carried a fowling piece loaded with shot, and from their shoulders were slung leather bags stuffed with game.

  “Oh, it happened by chance. My father has friends in the Ordnance Office, and they have friends in court, who have friends on the Privy Council. My father wrote someone a letter, and mentioned that Francis was seeking to purchase a commission in some old regiment. And this person wrote back saying that it could be arranged, as there were vacancies. And— there is a chance that if Cumberland is sent to help King Frederick—I guess you know how much Mr. Pitt is opposed to merely fighting the French on the Continent—Francis may accompany him as an aide! Of course, at first, he would have to perform all sorts of menial duties, but it’s a start. Francis left for London a week ago.”

  “How much did your father pay for his commission?”

  “Oh…hundreds of pounds, I think. But Francis will be getting one hundred and fifty a year, which he’s promised to pay Father, once he deducts for costs and mounts and such.”

  “I wasn’t aware that your father had government connections.”

  “Didn’t you know? He was himself a staff cornet with General Wills during the ’Fifteen, not much older than Francis. He was wounded at the siege of Preston, where the Scots surrendered. And he not only touched the hands of Marlborough when the Duke was alive, but was an escort at his funeral procession. He has all kinds of friends who have places in government, friends he made during the ’Fifteen campaign. And the stories he has to tell! Soldiering is a hard life, he warned Francis, even for the generals.”

  Hugh studied his friend for a moment. “You would like to follow your father and Francis to glory, wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, I don’t know…” Roger stopped suddenly. “Wait!” He stooped to pick up a stone, and hurled it into a clump of brush ahead of them. A flock of partridges exploded from the brush, and Roger raised his piece and fired at the fleeing birds. None tumbled to the ground.

  “You must do better than that,” remarked Hugh, “if you want to don a gorget.”

  “Officers don’t carry muskets.”

  “They may need to, in North America,” said Hugh. “The French and the aborigines there don’t exchange courtesies with us before instigating their butchery.” He watched his friend casually reload his fowling piece with powder and a bag of shot. “And you’ll need to improve your loading time. A good soldier can load and fire three times a minute. But I’ve heard that the Prussians can do five.”

  “Then it’s a good thing they’re on our side!”

  Hugh laughed. “Oh? I thought that we were on theirs.” The pair moved on through the field, paying less attention to the game around them than to their conversation. “What do you think of this war, Roger?”

  The boy shrugged. “I hope it lasts long enough that I can get into it. I’d like to see some of life and the world before becoming a gentleman farmer.”

  “There is more to life than fighting,” said Hugh. “There is the life of the mind, of sitting back and looking at the wor
ld and pondering what one wishes to do in it. I wish to go into commerce and trade, and grow richer for it.” He paused to glance at Roger. “Glory is to be found in commerce, sired by honor and courage and riskier strategy than any employed by Saxe or Cumberland.” He smiled. “Someday, after all the kings and princes and pretenders have exhausted their countries and their excuses for power, nations will boast instead of the size of their commerce and the comfort of their citizens. This is an age of reason, Roger, and it will advance, leaving the kings and princes far behind, ruling only over paper empires—in history books. England will be foremost among those nations, an England that will stretch from Margate and St. Peter Port to the Mississippi River. Mr. Pitt seems to be the only man in government who understands that, or who has a glimmer of it. He has a long view of things, and of what is at stake, and I admire him for it.”

  “Mr. Pitt is out of government now,” remarked Roger.

  “Not for long. He’ll be back. Hold!” Hugh suddenly raised his piece, aimed, and fired at a rabbit that leaped from beneath a shrub. The rabbit dropped instantly. “Some stew for your table, Roger,” he said. They walked over and inspected the rabbit.

  “You got it in the head again,” said Roger.

  Hugh picked up the animal and put it into his bag. “There’ll be less shot for your cook to pick out of the meat.”

  “Why do you think Mr. Pitt will come back?” asked Roger as they moved on.

  “Because he is the only man, it seems, who has a policy. And, he is a friend to liberty. Liberty and empire are not incompatible. That is why France must lose, ultimately. It could not sustain an empire of peasants and serfs in North America or anywhere else. But an empire of liberty? That is a different matter! And that is where England has the advantage. God knows, England is not perfect, but it is closer to liberty than France or any other nation will ever be in a hundred years.”

  Roger glanced at his friend. “You seem to have profited much by your stay in London.”