Revolution (2 page)

Jack nodded. “I mean that, exactly. With arms, if necessary.”

Hugh raised his riding crop and scratched his forehead with the end of it. At length, he remarked, “This wants thought, Jack. And discussion. The Attic Society meets this Saturday at Mr. Safford’s place. Will you propose the creation of such an organization as a subject of discussion?”

“I will propose that the Society adopt that name.”

Hugh frowned. “The Society’s purpose would be altered.”

Jack shook his head. “Not necessarily,” he answered. “Our purpose would be consistent and extended, from talk of principles of liberty, to practicing
them.”

Hugh’s eyebrows went up, and he sighed. “This, too, wants thought.” He glanced down at his friend. “I must consult my law books.” He tipped his hat again, reined his mount around, and rode out of the fields back to Meum Hall.

Jack watched his friend ride away, then turned to rejoin the line of men busy at the ditch.

* * *

The private room in Steven Safford’s King’s Arms Tavern on Queen Anne Street, in which the Attic Society of Caxton usually met, had been dubbed, at Hugh Kenrick’s request, the “Olympus Room.” What distinguished it from the tavern’s other, nameless rooms was the stenciled name on the door and a framed print of Mount Etna in Sicily on an otherwise bare wall just inside the room.

Safford, a tall, lean, steely eyed, blondish man born and raised in Massachusetts, had been one of the nearly three thousand colonial volunteers who helped to take French Louisbourg twenty years earlier. He was missing his left ear; it had been removed by a French musket ball during that campaign. He found the print in a miscellaneous goods shop in Williamsburg, and put it up on his own advice. “But, it is not Olympus,” protested Hugh when he first saw it a year ago. “Olympus is in Greece.”

“So it is,” replied Safford. “But, Etna is in Italy, which was ancient Rome. We are the citizens of a new Rome, and this Etna rumbles with eruptions. When did Olympus last rumble?”

Hugh could not answer the question, and conceded the publican’s observation. He searched among his own books and periodicals for a representation of Olympus, but could not find one.

The room also featured a large round oaken table that occupied nearly a quarter of the room’s space. It could accommodate ten patrons. Other chairs and a serving table were the only other furniture. Wall sconces lit the room, as did a pewter candelabrum that sat in the center of the round table.

Among the few souvenirs Safford brought back from Louisbourg — Commodore Warren of the Royal Navy squadron there having forbidden the colonial army from sharing in the prizes of the town’s capture — was a pair of Arabian ivory combs and an old jack of the Honorable East India Company, given to him by a drunken British marine in exchange for a half-gallon
of Jamaican rum. Safford supposed that the combs, which he later bartered for provisions with the colonel of another New England company, and the flag were taken from a French warehouse in the town, and that they were the forgotten booty of a past engagement between armed merchantmen of the French and English East India Companies off the west coast of India.

The jack now served as a tablecloth. Safford, who was a member of the Society, decided that his learned colleagues deserved a more gentlemanly surface on which to sup, imbibe, and conduct their business. He removed it from his trunk, paid the town’s best seamstress to repair it, and presented it to the Society as its exclusive property. At the conclusion of each meeting, the flag was folded up and put away until the next synod of savants.

It was nearly the size of an army ensign, and draped neatly over the round table, its four points touched the bare wooden floor. It was composed of seven red and six white alternating stripes, and a white canton with the red cross of St. George. It had been struck several times by French ball and grape during that long-ago duel over mercantilist domination of those faraway waters, but the seamstress, Lydia Heathcoate, had skillfully mended those places to near invisibility.

The Society met twice a month, planting and harvesting permitting. Its only permanent office was that of recording secretary; this was held by a non-member, usually one of the planters’ business agents who could take rough stenographic notes of what was said and done in the course of a meeting. The “chair” rotated among the fifteen members every two or three months; this person had the privilege of resting his elbows and tankard on a portion of St. George’s cross and of maintaining civil order during what at times became acrid debates.

The Attic Society had been Hugh Kenrick’s idea, and although it was a less formal version of the Society of the Pippin in London, he was happy that it existed and was welcomed by many of his neighbors with an eagerness and literacy that matched his own. Jack Frake, normally a man who preferred solitude and his own company, also welcomed meetings of the Society, for they seemed to echo, at least in spirit, his life with the Skelly gang in the Marvel caves of Cornwall long ago, and gave him a chance to measure his neighbors’ capacity for the liberty he was determined to preserve.

Tonight the meeting was attended by nearly the full membership: Jack Frake, Hugh Kenrick, Thomas Reisdale, the attorney and present chairman, Wendel Barret, the printer; Edgar and Ralph Cullis; Henry
Otway; and Carver Gramatan, of the rival Gramatan Inn and Tavern further up Queen Anne. Other members sat at the table or around the room. At Reisdale’s left was Obedience Robins, Jack Frake’s business agent, in the role of recording secretary, ready with a letter book, inkpot, and a brace of quills.

After a supper of beef and ale, Steven Safford treated the company to one round of his best Madeira; more could be had at three pence per glass. Toasts were made to the king, to Lieutenant-Governor Fauquier, and to Safford himself. A last toast was made by Hugh Kenrick; he had introduced it to the Society and it became popular: “Long live Lady Liberty!” Reisdale then asked Robins to read the notes from the last meeting of three weeks past. The subject then was the Stamp Act and the Resolves passed by the House of Burgesses in May. The Society’s own resolution, adopted by a vote of hands following hours of debate, was that the Stamp Act was unconstitutional in principle, extortionate in practice, and likely to “provoke invidious and vigorous sentiments against Parliament and the Crown.”

When Robins was finished, Jack Frake indicated a desire to speak. Reisdale recognized him. Jack rose to face the company. “In light of our resolution, I propose for discussion this evening two points: That this Society adopt the name ‘Sons of Liberty,’ and that whether or not that name is adopted, we discuss what actions may be taken to prevent the landing and employment of stamps in this county.” Then he sat down.

The company, for a long moment, sat silent and stunned. Everyone stared at Jack Frake, some in horror, others in bewilderment, and still others with genuine interest. Edgar Cullis looked away and muttered under his breath, “Oh, this is too much!” Only Hugh Kenrick, sitting next to his friend, did not stare at him; his gaze seemed to be fixed on Mount Etna on the wall across the room.

Thomas Reisdale was the first to recover. He looked stern now, and full of reproof. He rose and to the dozen men said, in a warning tone that was almost menacing and nearly condescending, “Allow me, sirs, to reply to that proposal with an entertaining procession of
laws
as much in effect here as in England.” He raised a finger in emphasis. “First, three or more persons who perform an ‘unlawful act of violence’ for
private purposes
— and opposition to any act of Parliament, which sits by leave and in the name of the king — is deemed a
riot
. Secondly, an uncompleted, failed, or foiled act of violence for a private purpose, is a
rout
. Thirdly, an act of violence
contemplated
by three or more persons, for the express private purpose of harassing a Crown officer or interrupting him in the performance of his
duties, is
ipso facto
, an
unlawful assembly.
”

Reisdale paused to glance pointedly at the face of every man in the room. “Lastly,” he said gravely, “and however, here is a saving grace of an unlawful act by any number of us, either performed or contemplated: If that act is public, that is, if it is sanctioned by a large group of citizens who share the legitimate, unredressed, unacknowledged complaint of the actors, if their act is undertaken for a recognized
public good
, then that act may be deemed
treason
against the Crown and the king’s writ, that is, a crime of presumption for acting in the name and place of the king.” He shook his head. “The simple act of obstructing a Crown officer is fraught with insidious intricacies, sirs. Why, that unlawful act could be construed as an act against liberty itself!” He paused to raise his hands. “I have cited variously the findings of our most eminent jurists: Blackstone, Hawkins, and, of course, Coke. And, I must remind you, sirs, that at this very moment,
we are all sitting in unlawful assembly!
” Reisdale glanced around the room again in hopes of seeing that each man before him realized the sobering jeopardy of resistance to the law. He saw faces as grave as he felt his own to be. He sat down and rested his arms on a bar of St. George’s cross.

Hugh Kenrick, who with Jack Frake was unmoved by the attorney’s litany of legal terror, signaled a wish to speak. Reisdale nodded to him.

Hugh rose, stepped away from the table to face the company, and said, “Everything our esteemed chairman said is true, sirs. He neglected to mention, however, because it is so obvious to us all, that conviction of any one of his charges would earn the severest and
most final
of penalties.”

Reisdale held up a hand. “I beg Mr. Kenrick’s pardon, but I also neglected to mention that I have received not three days ago letters from correspondents in New York, Philadelphia, New London, Newport, and Boston. Not a single author of them approves of the Resolves. These men are merchants and men of parts and wide experience. They view the Resolves as a whole as an incitation to rebellion, as provoking treason, as criminally reckless and irresponsible.” He snorted once. “As
premature
!”

Jack Frake asked, “If the Resolves are all that, sir, how else can one protest a deliberate reduction of our liberties? Surely, it is not by obsequious submission to tyranny.”

Reisdale frowned, unsure of the object of his friend’s contempt. “Excuse me, sir,” he replied, “but I did not say I agreed with my correspondents. I agree with you about the futility of submitting to tyranny.” He looked to Hugh Kenrick. “But, let us hear what the gentleman has to say.”

Hugh, amused by the exchange, nodded to both men, then continued. “However,
violence
may not be necessary. Here is my reasoning, sirs. I doubt that the stamps will arrive here in the company of soldiers or special magistrates charged with enforcing their distribution, purchase, or employment. Appointed distributors may arrive with the stamps, or the stamps may be met and secured by distributors appointed from among applicants here.” He paused and smiled easily at the company. “Of course, if planters and merchants and lawyers here united in a refusal to use the stamps, there would be a stoppage of trade and court business. Mr. Ivy here and Mr. Ambler in Yorktown at the customs house there would refuse to clear vessels and their cargoes without them. Should these gentlemen, however, be persuaded to risk penalties by issuing clearance papers to vessels here or in Yorktown without stamps, then the customs packets and naval tenders at the mouths of all our rivers to the Bay would deny them passage, and perhaps even seize them, unless their captains are granted special indemnification and dispensation by our governor or surveyor general to permit ships and cargoes to pass
sans
a single stamp. Governor Fauquier, as you all know, has commanding authority over all naval and customs vessels in these waters.” Hugh turned to Reisdale. “Is this not true, sir?’

Reisdale nodded. “Yes, this is true. He could do that, were he willing to risk censure by the Board of Trade and, perhaps, even his removal from office.”

Hugh turned and smiled at Jack Frake. “Perhaps, but that would be at his own risk. His Honor professes love of this colony. Let him demonstrate it,” he remarked. He continued. “Now, undoubtedly, suits against merchants and ship captains and masters and customs officials and inspectors would follow, should all that come about. But these, I believe, would be futile, for I am certain that our courts would either refuse to sit — for stamps would be required to bring suit against anyone in any matter — or our courts would sit and hear all cases brought before them without benefit of stamps, as they always have, and as they always must, in either instance, declining to uphold a law which our own magistrates must deem unconstitutional. And no suit over the failure to purchase or employ stamps would be recognized by those courts.”

Hugh paused to smile again. “And so, with all respect due to our chairman and his procession of definitions, I contend here and now that little risk would attend a refusal to allow passage of stamps from ship to shore in this county.” He pointed to Jack Frake. “Further, sirs, come what
may by the end of this meeting, and regardless of what actions we may resolve to take on this matter, you may be sure that when the moment comes, I, for one, will assist this gentleman in the execution of his proposal!”

Hugh returned to his chair and sat down. Jack Frake nodded in acknowledgement of his statement. The chairman, however, looked alarmed. He rose and said, “I disagree, sir, that violence may not be necessary! I believe it is
imperative
. If the Crown is as determined to introduce the stamps as we are to stop their introduction, well, logic requires that it must come to a show of force, and one side must yield.”

Hugh rose and replied, “You exaggerate the power of the Gorgon Grenville, good sir. One man will appear with a cargo of paper — hardly a formidable enemy. Oppose this man, promise him grief, and the paper will become mere paper.”