Caxton (19 page)
Authors: Edward Cline
conduit. He asked Hugh why the lock valve was so important. “Because it must allow
no leaks at that end,” Hugh said. “Also, when water is first being flushed into
the conduit, the valve must be open, or otherwise the water will be stopped somewhere
in the conduit by air, which would have no place to vent and could burst the bamboo.
That is why I also want little holes drilled at intervals on top of the conduit,
just to ensure
there is no stoppage.”
When not working on the conduit, Hugh was occupied with other demands of the plantation.
Rye and barley were sown, and new tobacco seeds planted in seedbeds in the woods
and carefully covered with straw. All the fields were ploughed and reploughed
and generously manured. Into the soil also went the dust of ground quahog shells.
Hugh himself took a shovel and hoe and leveled the uneven parts of the conduit’s
future route, which bisected the tobacco field. The
Busy
called on Meum
Hall that winter,
bringing supplies he had ordered from England and Philadelphia, in addition to
books and newspapers, plus letters from his father and Otis Talbot.
And money, his first payment for the tobacco and crops he had shipped out the
year before. When the
Busy
sailed back down the York, it carried the balance
of Hugh’s tobacco hogsheads and wool from the fall shearings.
* * *
Hugh met once a month with Jack Frake and Thomas Reisdale to discuss actions
and proposals during the current session of the House of Burgesses, together
with news they read in the Caxton
Courier
and other colonial newspapers.
He exchanged visits with Ian McRae and his family, and occasionally attended
winter balls hosted by the other planters. He wrote letters to his family in
England, and sent them sketches of Meum Hall. Garnet Kenrick wrote to his enterprising
son: “Your uncle has secured the loyalty of Henoch Pannell and his coterie of
seats
in the Commons, and I fear is emerging from a life of lethargy and
indolence and embarking upon the most active period of his life. I fear it,
because it can mean little else but mischief.”
Jack Frake told Hugh about his efforts to record the things said by Augustus
Skelly and Redmagne, and allowed him to read the ledger book. “They were truly
remarkable men,” Hugh said when he had finished. “They would have been fast
friends of the Pippins. And, yet, who remembers them, but you, Mr. Frake?”
Hugh sat for a while, thinking. Then he asked, “Do you still remember their
appearances?”
“Of Skelly and Redmagne? Vividly.”
“I have an idea. As I have done portraits of my own mentors, perhaps you could
have portraits of your own. You must describe them to me. I will begin with
a head and all its features, and then together we will refine the features until
we arrive at each of their likenesses.”
Jack studied his guest for a moment, then asked, “Why would you be willing to
do that for me?”
“Because it is the Christmas season, and we have had little to exchange in goodwill
these twelve festive days but our hospitality and some fine French liquor. Such
men deserve a permanent record. And, I am curious to know what your mentors
looked like.” He paused. “Perhaps, someday, when
Hyperborea
is free to
live outside the caves, Redmagne’s likeness will appear in a new edition of
that marvelous book.”
Jack poured himself another glass of wine. “All good reasons, Mr. Kenrick. But
the driving one is your curiosity.”
Hugh merely smiled in acknowledgment.
Two weeks later, the pencil sketches of Skelly and Redmagne were completed,
and Jack instructed his cooper to make frames for them. The portraits now hung
on a wall opposite his desk in his library.
They could not help it, but the talk between the three members of Jack’s “Attic”
society always returned to politics. The three men were certain that grave political
crises lay ahead for all the colonies. Reisdale was certain of it because of
his vast, scholarly readings in “ancient republics” and “arcadian” and modern
constitutions.
One evening he said, “The problem has always resulted in one or another political
mode. Ideal republics — or republics that promoted prosperity and happiness
in all realms of human endeavor — have without exception degenerated into one
or the other despotism: an oligarchy, or democracy. Rule of the privileged few
over the many, or rule of the privileged many over the few — which in time sired
another oligarchy, one more ruthless and absolute than its predecessor. The
two phenomena are intimately linked and married by their natures. The ideal
republics themselves sire the ensuing and inevitable phenomena because they
lack something, something that is merely implied but then neglected or even
suppressed, or is overlooked. Mr. Locke I cannot but help suspect nearly identified
that principle. He performed a feat of great intelligence, assembling the scattered
pieces of a political puzzle and correctly putting them in their right places.
But for all the love I have for his work, he leaves me hungry for an answer
to that paradox. I am certain that the cycle of these troubling phenomena can
be broken, but I am at a loss to say by what.”
Jack Frake and Hugh Kenrick were also aware of this lack in all their political
readings, but not in themselves. Their certainty of coming crises lay in the
senses they had of themselves. They were both what they assumed other men ought
to be, and were aware of that species of egoism, too. For them the political
crises they were certain would come would be mere consequences of another kind
of crisis, one driven by a force that was more invasive and corrupting than
a new law or tax.
“Whatever that may be,” said Hugh that evening in Jack’s library in reply to
Reisdale’s remarks, “that lack, once discovered and expounded, will serve to
choose an empire of reason that protects a man’s life, liberty, and property.
Its temporal form exists for him, not he for it.”
Jack shook his head. “Whatever that may be,” he said, “it must aid in the dissolution
of the existing empire, and we will begin anew.”
“I say that once the empire is threatened with ruin,” countered Hugh, “the powers
in London will see reason and defer to it.”
“I say that once the empire is threatened with ruin, they will attempt to disown
reason and resort to force, fraud, and transparent chicanery. Reason is a path
they dare not tread, neither the lords, nor the men in the Commons, nor the
merchants. It is a straight line, reason — as straight as the conduit you are
creating, Mr. Kenrick — and its logic is compelling and intolerant of expedience.
Oh, they will see reason, and they may even follow it for a distance. But once
they see where it is leading them, they will renounce it, as they must.”
“Where would it lead them, Mr. Frake?” asked Reisdale.
“Yes,” Hugh said. “What do you think they would see that would frighten them?”
“Revolution in England. Or at least some radical reformation in her politics.”
Jack paused. “Here? It would lead to independence.”
Hugh frowned. “Why do you believe they must renounce reason?”
“Because it will not give them what they want, which is a continent of glorified
factotums, made passive and submissive by chains of paper and ink, chains of
a thousand links and taxes.”
Reisdale also frowned. He studied his host, who smiled at the attorney’s scrutiny,
as though daring him to question the truth. Reisdale asked, “Why are you so
certain that what you say will occur, must occur?”
“Because I am waiting for the rest of you to allow your honesty to govern your
thoughts. When you do, you will think as I do, clear down to your bones. You
will say, ‘Virginia is my country, and the Crown will violate her no more.’”
“Yes,” Hugh said, who also studied Jack with new wonder. “Virginia is our country.
But — the solution is to deny Parliament the power to make enslaving laws, to
deny them the right and opportunity to produce so much paper and ink.” He shook
his head. “Independence? I do not see any or all of the colonies severing their
bonds with England. Nor can I imagine them independent of her. They are as contentious
with and envious of one another as are the nations of Europe. They would neither
last as sovereign nations nor tolerate each other without the foundation of
English law.”
Reisdale nodded in agreement, then said, “Mr. Frake, you speak of us as though
we were a conquered people. We are not. We are Britons.”
“No, we are not a conquered people, sir,” Jack said. “But I fear that the Crown,
casting about for a monied means to keep and sustain its empire, will begin
to treat us as one.”
* * *
By the beginning of April, the conduit was completed and assembled. This slender,
artificial thing was of the earth, yet at the same time in defiance of it. Almost
a mile in length, it sat empty and untested, a brownishgreen straight line that
shot through the brown of the fields, no wider than the palm of a man’s hand,
running from Hove Creek to the fringes of the outbuildings near the great house
of Meum Hall. It rested a foot and a half off the ground in the snug grooves
of a hundred flat, oaken stands that were secured with brick. Scores of taps,
each carefully sealed with tar, punctuated either side of the conduit.
In Hove Creek stood a short tower, half brick, half trimmed oak, topped by
an open wooden tub, at the bottom of which was fixed the mouth of the conduit.
At the other end were a wooden lock valve and an extension of the conduit that
was connected to the base of the main well of the great house. What water was
not used on the crops, Hugh had decided, would replenish the well.
Hugh rode up and down the length of the conduit, searching for oversights and
inspecting the workmanship. At Hove Creek he sat on his mount and looked down
the whole length. He could see it curve imperceptibly until the far end disappeared
from his sight. He had lived with the idea for a year and a half, and the reality
of the conduit still caused a thrill of pride to stiffen his back. Questions
teased his mind: Would it bear the weight of hundreds of gallons of water? Would
the force of the rushing water cause leaks or breakages? He had thought of every
little detail and taken every precaution. He was certain that none of these
things would happen.
On that April morning, the sky was dark with storm clouds. It had rained only
the night before, and the earth was soft and smelled rich with life. The corn
was planted, and the hills prepared to receive thousands of transplanted tobacco
shoots from the seedbeds in May. His workers had been hoeing those hills, getting
rid of the weeds that would compete for water and nourishment with the tobacco.
Hugh watched them begin to drift away from their work back to the tenements
and shelter from the approaching storm.
Thunder rumbled over Hugh’s head, and rolled to the west. He glanced up at
the sky as though it had expressed jealousy. He laughed once, and doffed his
hat at the imagined personification. As heavy drops of rain began to fall, he
rode unhurriedly back to Meum Hall the whole length of the conduit.
In the last week of April, when it had not rained in three weeks and men’s
footsteps kicked up little swirls of dust in the ground, Hugh ordered the conduit
opened. Two men worked at the platform in Hove Creek, pouring bucket after five-gallon
bucket into the collection tub. Mr. Beecroft, notebook and pencil in hand, stood
nearby on the bank, counting the bucketsful so that, once the water reached
the well-end, the exact capacity of the conduit could be known. Several men
stood at points along the length of the conduit holding makeshift flags, ready
to relay a signal to the tub men to stop once the conduit was full. Groups of
laborers milled around the line, their buckets and funnels stacked in the field.
Many kneeled at the conduit, pressing their ears to the vent holes, listening
for the sound of water. Everyone at Meum Hall felt a subdued excitement, for
not only were they anxious about the conduit, but they knew that its success
today meant the end of a generations-old routine of caring for the tobacco,
which was to carry water over great distances to coax struggling seedlings to
grow. The transplanting of those young plants from the seedbeds would begin
tomorrow, the first of May.
William Settle stood with Primus and Bristol at the end of the conduit. Bristol
held a signal flag. The lock valve at the well was open. Hugh’s original idea
of a screw valve proved to be beyond the capabilities of the materials available
to the cooperage. He redesigned the valve, incorporating an iron disk that could
be turned on an iron ring and locked into place with a wood pin behind the external
turning wheel. The valve could be opened or closed in stages by means of carved
cogs. When he had to abandon the screw valve, Hugh spent three days working
out the problem of a new valve; it had taken nearly two weeks of patient labor
at the forge to perfect it.
Hugh remained apart from the others, hands locked behind his back, watching
and waiting.
Aquarter of an hour later, Primus exclaimed, “Look!”
But Hugh had already seen some laborers in the distance gesturing excitedly
at the conduit and laughing. The water was flowing. It reached the well-end
fifteen minutes later with a muffled gurgle and gushed into the well. Hugh nodded
to Bristol, who instantly signaled the command to the tub men to stop. Hugh
went to the well and peered into it to watch the water exploding from the bamboo,
then a few minutes later knelt before the valve to close it.
This was a more crucial test for the conduit than its ability to carry water;
it must endure the gradual stoppage of the water and stand without bursting
or springing leaks from the new pressure. Hugh grasped the handles of the wheel
and closed the valve slowly, cog by cog, his hearing focused on the rush of
water into the well. When he heard only a trickle, he gave the wheel one last
turn. The trickle diminished to an erratic drip. He waited a moment. The dripping
ceased. Then he let the lock pin fall into a ring and tapped it securely into
place with a hammer. He glanced up to see Settle and Primus watching him. Both
men smiled at him in congratulations. Hugh nodded once, then rose and strode
to where he could look up the length of the conduit. Laborers stood near it,
waiting. Hugh said, “Mr. Bristol, signal them to open the taps.”
Bristol obeyed and waved his flag in another prearranged signal. Men knelt down
all along the conduit and positioned their buckets directly beneath the taps.
Hugh could see the man closest to him, over a hundred yards away, jerk the lever
of the converted ale keg tap forward. After a moment, the man rose, brandished
the bucket, and with a broad grin tilted the bucket over. Water splashed to
the ground.
Only then did Hugh permit himself to smile.
With Settle and Primus, he walked up the line, stopping now and then to demonstrate
to laborers how to use the funnels properly to water the hills of the young
corn stalks. He met Mr. Beecroft halfway. The business agent reported that the
men had poured four hundred and sixty gallons into the tub before they were
signaled to stop. “Very good, Mr. Beecroft,” said Hugh. “That is over my calculations
by fourteen gallons.”
“Well done, sir,” said Beecroft, gesturing to the conduit. “It is an oddity,
this conduit, but it will do the work. We won’t lack for water ever again, I
would venture.”
“Thank you, Mr. Beecroft,” Hugh said. “You are right. But we are merely emulating
the aqueducts of the Romans.”
Later in the day, just before the light began to slide into dusk, and when the
laborers had finished their work and returned to their quarters, Hugh, driven
by restlessness, wandered out of the great house and past the outbuildings to
the well-end. He stopped when he saw the sun’s last rays shine on the whole
length of the conduit. For a brief moment, the brownish-green of the bamboo
was turned into an almost incandescent white. An inner glow lit up inside him
then, one that did not change the set of his mouth. At that moment, he felt
prouder of what he had accomplished today than of anything he had ever done
in the past. The glowing streak that vanished into the darkening trees beyond
was fused with the living, headlong impetus of his soul, mind, and being. He
raised a hand in the air and closed his fingers around the vision.
Mine
,
he thought,
and through it, all the earth
.
The sunset’s rays faded then. The vision flickered away, first to silver, then
to brownish-green. But the vision never faded in the man who was Hugh Kenrick.
He heard the jingle of a bridle, and turned to see Jack Frake on his horse on
the other side of the conduit. He was leaned forward, resting an elbow on the
pommel of his saddle, studying him with a kind of distant intensity. Hugh saw
in his eyes that he knew what he had been thinking and feeling. He remembered
that his arm was still raised, and lowered it in a simple confession of the
moment.
Behind Jack was John Proudlocks, also mounted. The man dropped from his saddle,
took a few steps closer to the conduit, and stooped to brush areverent hand
over the bamboo. He glanced once at Hugh, then up at his employer. He said,
in a matter-of-fact tone, “I once called this kind of thing magic. Just as you
have, Jack, Mr. Kenrick here has proven that it is not. It is there,” he said,
slapping the top of the conduit once with his palm, then pointing to his forehead.
“But first, it must be here.”
Hugh laughed, not at Proudlocks, but from joy in discovering another man who
understood such a thing. “It can begin nowhere else, Mr. Proudlocks.”
“Nowhere else,” echoed Proudlocks.
Jack sat up in his saddle. He knew what his neighbor had been working on all
winter and spring, but until now had doubted the practicality of the conduit.
He said, without breaking the moment, “We heard about it. We came to see for
ourselves.” He did not need to say more. He nodded to Hugh in apology and concession,
a simple, happy action that ennobled him and raised him in the estimation of
his friend and neighbor.
