Caxton (22 page)

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 friend,
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.”
Jack nodded. “Does your father share your views on it?”
“No,” Hugh said. “His mind, too, stalls on that subject, and loses verve,
and purpose. But his is not an exclusively English fault. So many learned
colonials are similarly affected.”
Jack rose and refilled Hugh’s glass from a decanter, and then his own.
“We colonials,” he said as he put down the decanter, “sooner than most
Englishmen, will be pressed to choose between that
corpus mysticum
and
our liberties.”
Hugh nodded once. “But only after first grasping that there can be no
lasting agreement between them. They must learn that there is no such
thing as a good king, only an unambitious one who confers an illusory stability.”
Jack smiled and touched Hugh’s glass with his own. “A toast then to
the Skelly gang, my friend, and to the Pippins, and to ourselves, as their
rightful heirs.”
Hugh grinned. “And to all men of like mind — and God damn the
king!”
When they finished downing their drinks, Jack said, “I will have some
letters to friends in England ready by the time you leave. Will you carry
them over and post them?”
“As many as you wish,” said Hugh. “I will spend at least six weeks
there. Is there anyone you would wish me to see and speak to?”
Jack shook his head. “No. I would say Captain Ramshaw, but he must
be at sea by now. Very likely your ships will pass each other.”
When Hugh returned to Meum Hall, he went to his own library, took
down an atlas of English maps, and turned the pages to Dorset. There were
almost a dozen boroughs in the county, including Onyxcombe, which his
family had controlled for generations, and whose political boundaries
enclosed the village of Danvers and the Kenrick estate. The other Dorset
boroughs, such as Poole, Corfe Castle, Lyme Regis, and Weymouth, ranged
in type of franchise from scot and lot to householder to freeman.
Onyxcombe, however, was the only burgage; the Kenrick family was its
major freeholder, owning nearly all the land and buildings in the borough,
except for the Brune and Tallmadge estates, and so held the solitary vote.
Onyxcombe was anomalous again in that it was one of the few boroughs in
the entire country that returned a single representative to the Commons;
most others sent two. The Kenrick family had never tried to influence the
elections in Poole, the borough nearest to Onyxcombe, nor attempted to
usurp the control which the merchants there had over the port. Poole was
the homeport of the
Busy,
the
Nimble
, and the
Ariadne
. All three vessels
also regularly called on it to unship Newfoundland fish, Carolina rice, Virginia corn, and New England timber, as well as Continental cargoes. His
father was all too pleased with the corporation of Poole, and had amicable
ties to many of the freemen-merchants who retained the franchise.
As he studied the maps, Hugh wondered which borough his father had
acquired control over. And whichever it was, he also tried to imagine his
father rising in the Commons to address its tightly packed audience. For all
that he found admirable in his father, he did not think he could number
among his virtues a gift for public speaking. After a while, Hugh closed the
atlas. It was fruitless to try to surmise the details of his father’s new career.

A
round of bon voyage suppers was held in Hugh’s honor in the weeks before his departure. At the home of the McRaes, he
promised he would bring Etáin some new sheet music; her mother, French newspapers; and her father, new pattern books, catalogues, and
copies of
Gentleman’s Magazine
. At Enderly, he assured Reece Vishonn that he would return with some new agricultural books the planter had
read about, and wished the man’s children, James and Annyce, the best happiness for their weddings.

Jack Frake gave a farewell supper at the King’s Arms the night before
Hugh was to board a sloop that would take him to Philadelphia. Here, too,
he made a list of things that other men requested. The most unusual
request came from John Proudlocks, who expressed curiosity about the
subjects he heard his employer and others discuss with a seriousness that
intrigued him.

“Would you bring me a copy of the British constitution, Mr. Kenrick?”
he asked. “A tattered copy, not a new one. I can only afford what is called
a ‘second-hand’ copy.”

Everyone seated around the wide table glanced at the Indian. One man
suppressed a snort, another a giggle. Hugh threw a reproving look at them.
Jack turned wordlessly to Hugh, and waited to hear how he would answer
the request.

Hugh said, “You could not afford a copy of our constitution, sir, tattered or new, for one does not exist. Mr. Reisdale can vouch for this. It is,
you see, a great pile of precedents and decisions, not all of them reasonable,
accumulated over centuries, and collected in a hundred tomes. Our constitution is the common law, which is everywhere around you, like the air.”
He paused when he saw the disappointment on Proudlocks’s face. “Our
constitution excludes much of Parliament’s mischief, which is also everywhere about you.”

The men all laughed. Hugh said, “I will, however, try to find a digest of
our constitution’s salient points. Also, my father writes that an eminent
jurist has given a clear presentation of it in a series of lectures at Oxford
University, and has published them in a book. I happen to want a copy of
it myself.”
“Which jurist, sir?” asked Reisdale.
“William Blackstone, of the Middle Temple, I believe.”
“I am not acquainted with him.
I
would be interested in reading what

he has to say.”
Hugh asked Proudlocks, “What is
your
interest in the subject, sir?”
The man looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I have heard

much babble about it lately among you gentlemen. Some say this constitution is in trouble, that its protection will be denied us. Others say it will
cause us trouble, because it will allow the Crown to possess us. I wish to
know how this can be.” He paused. “I wish to judge for myself.”

“A wise policy, sir,” said Hugh. He beamed, and glanced briefly at Jack,
who sat next to Proudlocks. He was happy that his friend could make such
afriend. Then he rose and exclaimed, gesturing to Proudlocks, “Gentlemen!
Hic de nihilo crevit homo!
— He is a self-made man!”

“Hear, hear!” seconded Reisdale. He was echoed by others around the
table.
Proudlocks seemed to blush at the compliment paid him, but grinned
in grateful acknowledgment.
Jack tentatively raised his glass of port to Hugh. “If you have a family
coat-of-arms or crest, my friend, you ought to discard its motto and adopt
that one.”
“Though first substituting
ego
for
hic
,” added Reisdale.
“I will think on that suggestion,” remarked Hugh. “Gentlemen, I am
happy to have you as company. While I am away, I shall miss you all.”
“As we shall you,” said Steven Safford. “You are one of us, now.”
Jack Frake rose to propose a toast. Looking at Hugh, he said, “Long live
Lady Liberty.”
Hugh took up his own glass and raised it in answer. “And to the
memory of those who knew her, and to those who know her today.”

* * *

The next morning, Hugh reviewed his instructions to William Settle
for managing Meum Hall.
“How long do you plan to stay, sir?” asked the overlooker.
“At least six weeks. Probably longer. It would not be worth going if the
stay were shorter than the voyage. I hope to return by September. I doubt
that I could bear a longer absence from this place.”
He gave last instructions to the housekeeper, Mrs. Vere, and to
Beecroft, then visited the tenants’ quarter and said goodbye to its residents.
His trunks were loaded onto a cart, and Spears, the valet, drove him down
to Caxton’s waterfront.
It was a dry, crisp morning. At the pier, waiting for him, were Jack
Frake, John Proudlocks, Thomas Reisdale, and the McRaes. They came
aboard with Hugh to talk until the sloop was ready to embark. It was the
Amherst
, formerly the
Nancy,
renamed in honor of the British general who
had secured the surrender of Montreal and thus closed Canada to the
French.
The
Amherst
took Hugh to Philadelphia, where he stayed with Otis
Talbot while waiting for the
Roilance
to take him to England.
As the
Roilance
, driven by a good westerly wind, plunged through the
whitecaps toward England, Hugh stood at the stern and watched the continent shrink to a thin, dark line on the bobbing horizon. He felt that he
was leaving home, a place he had made his own, a place that gave him the
same experience as
Hyperborea
. “You are one of us, now,” said Steven Safford at the supper. He had not attached any special importance to the
remark when he first heard it. Now it recurred to him for a reason he
understood too well, prompted by the sight of the tenuous, receding vision
in the west. For the first time, a question formed in his mind, and it caused
him a poignant sadness, because he knew that it would require an answer:
Could he still call England home?
Then the line in the west disappeared beneath the waves, and, once
again, he was surrounded by mere ocean. He turned to lean against the rail,
and looked up at the pennants snapping in the breeze above the full sails.
He saw one crewman climb the web-like rigging, intent on some task, oblivious to the wind that whipped his jacket. But Hugh imagined he saw a man
ascending Mount Olympus.