Revolution (3 page)

“You are proposing
rebellion!”
exclaimed Carver Gramatan.

“Raising our hands against the king!” echoed Ralph Cullis.

“No, sir,” countered Wendel Barret, “against Parliament, who are the true rebels, serpents of a Medusa-like creature playing at king!”

“Mr. Barret is correct, sirs!” said Henry Otway. “His Majesty is the sole proprietor of this colony, not Parliament! Our charter says so!”

“His Majesty will protect us from Parliament’s avarice,” insisted another member, “once he realizes he has been gulled by ministers and sly counsel!”

“This is true!” protested another. “Why, I read in
Gentleman’s Magazine
that His Majesty spurned a petition by peruke makers to enact a law that would require all men to wear wigs! He himself is reluctant to wear one! Now,
I
say,
there
is a revealing side of his benign character, one on which we may depend!”

Jack Frake frowned in amazement and shook his head. He rose and said, “You all forget that the king who spurned a wig also signed the Proclamation of ’63, sirs! That villainy is as much a seizure of our lives and property as will be the stamps!”

“I, too, have read that particular number of
Gentleman’s Magazine
,” said Hugh Kenrick with a shrug. “In that same number, it was reported that Queen Charlotte’s elephant is daily exercised by its
mahout
in St. James’s Park.”

The other men looked at him in confusion. “Your meaning, sir?” queried the member who mentioned the petition of the peruke makers.

“That the outings of Her Majesty’s elephant have as little to do with the Stamp Act as has His Majesty’s snubbing of the peruke makers.” He paused. “More connected to our dilemma, and by way of a clue to the efficacy of action, are the disturbances and commotions by the silk weavers and glovers in London, who are feeling the pinch of the nonimportation agreements of our northern cousins to reduce their purchase of mourning blacks.” Before anyone else could speak, Hugh turned to Edgar Cullis. “Sir,” he asked, “have you received information about a congress of delegates from all the colonies to meet in New York in October?”

Hugh’s fellow burgess seemed genuinely surprised. “No,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“You are a member of Mr. Randolph’s committee of correspondence.”

“I was, sir,” replied Cullis. “I may be reappointed to it in the next session. Mr. Randolph does not privilege me with communications from other colonies when the Assembly is not in session.” He shook his head. “Like you, sir, I am but a ‘junior’ burgess.”

“I see.” Hugh did not pursue the subject, but other members expressed interest in the news. He explained the purpose of the proposed congress and briefly outlined his own thoughts on it. He had already told Jack Frake, who did not join in the animated speculation about the congress’s aims or the ramifications of holding such a conclave.

Abruptly, Carver Gramatan silenced the hubbub of talk when he rose and proclaimed angrily, “I have sullied my loyalty to His Majesty by remaining here amongst this…
unlawful assembly
!” The room remained quiet. Gramatan, a man some years older than Safford and who, besides owning the Gramatan Inn, also owned a handful of tenanted farms up and down the length of the York River, claimed to be a distant relative of the Duke of Marlborough. He picked up his hat and cane and announced, “You may take my departure as a resignation from the Society, which I see is becoming a clutch of traitors and conspirators, a cursed bevy of Guy Fawkes’ and Gunpowder men!” The aristocratic publican turned and walked to the door. There he turned again and with a disdainful glance at Safford, added, “The Cumberland Room at my establishment will be made available to any of you who wish to partake of civil, learned, and
untreasonous
discussion, to men whose loyalty and allegiance to His Majesty and our mother country are beyond testing and above doubt. Good night to you, sirs!” He opened the door and stalked out.

Steven Safford rose and addressed the company. “Until now, gentlemen,
I did not begrudge the late member his good fortune or the quality of his fare. As you all know, he has recently returned from England, where a deceased brother left him a substantial estate in annuities, consols, and income from a shipbuilding concern near Portsmouth. Submission to stamps will not much affect his station, here or in England.” He paused. “Do any of you gentlemen wish to accept his invitation?”

No one else in the room spoke or moved.

“Very well,” said Safford. “Mr. Reisdale, let us debate Mr. Frake’s proposals.”

Two hours later, after votes of hands had been taken, both proposals were defeated by small majorities. Jack Frake was not discouraged. Nor was Hugh Kenrick. They rode back to their plantations together that evening in silence, until Jack said, “I am not surprised by the outcome, Hugh. It is too early for most men to think in my and your terms.” He sighed wistfully. “I think this time other men, in other colonies, will raise the hue and cry. Virginia lit the torch and held it aloft for all to see. Other men will carry it, for now.”

Hugh smiled. “It is a rare treat, Jack, to hear you utter such poetical sentiments.” He added, after a moment, “I believe that what troubles our friends is that they don’t yet know how the stamps will arrive. Nor are they certain how the Crown will behave if some combination of the colonies is accomplished.”

“An unreasoning fear of an enemy can inflate his size and power,” remarked Jack.

Hugh nodded in agreement. “Well, we have both faced small enemies, and large, my friend. Now, we shall face one together.”

* * *

W
hile men in the colonies talked and wrote about the Resolves, Patrick Henry, and the ominous nature of the Stamp Act, and allowed their fears, outrage, and disaffection to guide their thoughts and actions, the mood in London was quite the opposite. Grenville’s ministry was doomed, and as the prime minister was being maneuvered into resignation in July, men were jockeying for the right to form a new government or for a place in it. The colonials passed the days, weeks, and months of the summer of 1765 in grim anticipation of their own actions and the Crown’s; their cousins in England passed them in a frustrating stalemate of ambitious obstinacy. In the corridors and closets of power, there was much bickering, posturing, and conniving; much activity, but little action.

The Duke of Cumberland, burdened with a variety of uncomfortable maladies and a discreet reluctance to embroil himself in affairs that would rob him of his diversions, served on Grenville’s departure as prime minister
pro tempore
, and worked closely if unsuccessfully with the aging Duke of Newcastle to assemble a ministry acceptable to both George the Third and the King of Commoners, William Pitt. Pitt, emerging from his disabling melancholia lucid enough to manage for a time the direction of his career and ambition, twice overcame his painful gout to be taken by sedan chair to see the king, but refused to form a ministry unless he could bring into it his brother-in-law, Lord Temple. The king could not sanction any ministry that counted among its principals a man who had so openly supported the loathsome John Wilkes, who had suggested that the king was a fool and a liar. The two monarchs could not agree on other terms of
rapprochement
, leaving the kingmakers, power-brokers, and hopefuls for preferments muttering imprecations and scurrying to find a willing substitute for Pitt.

Baron Garnet Kenrick and Sir Dogmael Jones remained aloof from the imbroglio over who was to succeed Grenville. The Kenricks departed London to spend the season in Danvers, while Jones divided his time
between Danvers and London. In the city, he performed his tutorial duties at Serjeants’ Inn, argued a number of cases at the King’s Bench during Trinity term — representing clients prosecuted under statutory censorship — and monitored the contest for ministerial succession.

In early July, after Grenville had gone, Jones journeyed to Danvers to report developments in London to his patron.

“Domestic relations are in a furtive dither, milord,” he said as he and Garnet Kenrick rode leisurely on horseback through the Danvers estate on an inspection tour. “Cumberland is lumbering — Ah! There’s the germ of a scandalously picturesque doggerel! I must complete it and submit it to the newspapers! — lumbering, as I said, between Richmond and Windsor Great Lodges, between all the baiting, hooting parties like a blindfolded bear at the Southwark Fair, shackled to the wishes of his nephew the king, taunted with morsels by his friends, nipped at his heels by mongrels from the Grenville and Bedford kennels. What a thankless task! Mr. Pitt interviewed twice with the king, but formally declined to head a new government unless Lord Temple could be brought into it without His Majesty making a face, and Lord Bute banished beyond influence to the Hebrides, and Bedford and anyone who supported the Treaty of Paris he negotiated absolutely barred from a place in administration. Temple, in any event, rebuffed his own sponsors and refused the Treasury, for many reasons to be sure, but chief among them his unwillingness to become his brother-in-law’s mute valet in policy. What a conundrum of siblings!” laughed Jones.

He took a puff on his pipe, then continued. “Everyone but Mr. Pitt labors under the suspicion that His Majesty continues to seek the devilish advice of Lord Bute. To allay that suspicion, he has graciously agreed to remove from their places a number of Scottish lords, including Bute’s brother. A very
plaid
promise, that!” Jones shook his head. “And, everyone wishes Mr. Pitt to succeed Mr. Grenville, milord, even His Majesty, but his terms are either too offensive or too strenuous. It is common knowledge that he is not open to concession. Nonetheless, it is tried. To appease him, Justice Pratt may be elevated to Lords. Newcastle is willing to follow Marlborough as Lord Privy Seal. A program was drawn up, I understand, designed to seduce Mr. Pitt: An alliance with Prussia, repeal of the cider and American stamp taxes, nullification of general warrants by the Commons, restitution or reinstatement of army officers who did not vote to Mr. Grenville’s liking — in short, a deliberate and thorough repudiation of the whole of Mr. Grenville’s program, which, I needn’t point out to you,
milord,” added Jones with dark humor, “was endorsed by His Majesty, except for the Regency Bill, of course.”

Jones glanced over at his patron. “There is more, milord. Shall I wait until we have had dinner to continue?”

Garnet Kenrick grimaced. “Thank you for asking, Mr. Jones. But, go on. My appetite can endure it.”

“Very well. Charles Townshend will very likely agree to gild his fingers as the new Paymaster. His cousin of the same name may find a place on the Admiralty Board. Mr. Dowdeswell is to be the new Chancellor of the Exchequer, although he is keen only to see repeal of the cider tax. Grafton has accepted appointment as Secretary of State for the North, provided Mr. Pitt can be lured into the government. General Conway will be Secretary for the South. Charles Yorke is playing the demure maiden over becoming Attorney-General. He is especially desired by the king for his declamatory skills in the Commons.” Jones paused. “As for Lord Rockingham, his sole political experience as Lord of the Bedchamber cannot help but be reflected in his role as First Lord of the Treasury.” He sighed. “I would grieve for my country, milord, but only after a long, hearty laugh. All in all, it has been a very amusing entertainment, a circus of decorous turpitude.”

The Baron frowned. “I have not made his acquaintance. How old is Lord Rockingham?”

“Thirty-five, milord,” answered Jones. “Much older than your son, who is so much wiser.” He tapped his forehead with the stem of his pipe. “He is without a program, in a manner of speaking, quite saddleless in his principles. Wealthy, of course, a member of the Jockey Club. Well, I have spoken with him — made his acquaintance at a congress of anti-Grenvillites — and am of the opinion that as prime minister, he will be good for only one-half turn around the Ascot course before he winds himself and is tumbled by the headlong imperatives of empire and ineptitude. I expect to compose many letters to the newspapers about his anxious term, and refer to it as the ‘Rocking-Horse Ministry.’”

“You would make a cruelly just satirist, Mr. Jones,” remarked the Baron with a chuckle. Then he was silent for a while as they rode on, except to comment on the neatness of the fields. At length, he asked, “What is my brother up to? He must be in the thick of things.”

Jones spoke freely about the Earl of Danvers, as he knew he could to the man’s brother. “I have heard that he is circulating the notion that Mr. Pitt ought to be awarded a peerage, too. His minions, Sir Henoch and Mr.
Hillier, in the meantime, are busy advancing the notion among members of the Commons that should Mr. Pitt accept a peerage, it would be a gross betrayal of his friends and of liberty.” Jones scoffed. “The devil’s advocate for chastity and modesty at work there, I should say!”

The Baron frowned in perplexity for a moment. Then his face brightened. “Ah! I see what they are up to! Mr. Pitt as Earl Something-or-other in Lords would remove him from the Commons, where he is most effective and feared. And, his party there would become rudderless and embittered. What an insidious ruse!”

“Insidious, milord? Agreed,” said Jones. “And effective, if it can be accomplished. However, unless he is also afflicted with the vanity of omnipotence, I don’t see Mr. Pitt falling for it.”

Soon after he returned to London a week later, Jones was visited in his new rooms near the Serjeants’ Inn by two messengers. The first, from Benjamin Worley at Lion Key, brought him a thick parcel from Captain John Ramshaw of the
Sparrowhawk
, now waiting in queue in the Pool of London. Jones opened it immediately and found in it a printed copy of the Virginia Resolves and Hugh Kenrick’s long letter describing their passage in the House of Burgesses.

The Resolves caused Jones to gasp in happy shock, the letter caused him to chuckle in grim admiration of the frankness of the Resolves’ advocates. He frowned, though, when he read that part of Hugh’s narrative that briefly mentioned the assault on him by John Chiswell, another burgess.

“That was, I contend,” wrote Hugh, “a measure of the last argument Parliament and the Loyalists here have in their arsenal of persuasion on this or any other legislative matter. I beg this favor of you, my honorable friend, that you do not mention this incident to my parents. (I have sent my father copies of everything now in your hands, even a copy of this letter, from which I have omitted mention of it.) I do not wish them to become alarmed about my safety. I relate the incident to you so that you may properly gauge the level of feeling in these parts about Crown authority. As you will deduce from the addresses of Mr. Randolph and his party, there exist here sundry and numerous allies of those in the Commons who will become your opponents when this matter arrests the attention of the House when it reconvenes in December, as surely it must. Undoubtedly, repeal of this act, or at least consideration of its mitigation, will occupy much of your and their time and energy, leading to sittings late at night and
early in the morning.…
Manus hæc infensa tyrannis.…
”

“This hand is also hostile to tyranny,” mused Jones to himself. He turned to read the transcripts that had accompanied the letter and the Resolves. An hour later, he finished reading and turned over the last page. Then he pounded the page with a fist.
My God!
he thought.
These men put the best of us to shame!
“If this be treason, then make the most of it!” he said out loud, and laughed quietly at the ease with which he pronounced those words. “May George the Third profit by their example!”
What a sublime insult
, he thought,
and a well-deserved one! Mr. Henry
, he thought,
you have my salute! Such sentiments, uttered here by you or me, would see either of us clapped in irons within five minutes of a motion to censure and expel! For what offense? For having made an address to the throne of right and reason!

Jones put the papers aside on his desk and sat to gaze out his window at London. He loved the city. He doubted he could ever be persuaded to exchange living here for a chance to settle in America. But, he thought:
Though I love my country, I am willing to help midwife the birth of another, for another country…another kingdom…is the only logical consequence of these speeches, and of the Resolves, and of the spirit that made them.…

The second messenger, a haughty, liveried creature, called on Jones near dusk, and presented him with an invitation to a levee the next afternoon at the Bloomsbury residence of John Russell, the Duke of Bedford.

A levee was an 18th-century social occasion, one of whose purposes, especially in politics, was the nose-counting of friends and allies. It could be as formal or informal as the host wished. He could circulate among his nervous, smiling, expectant guests and confer his approval or disapproval with a kind word or pointed inattention. Or, he could allow his guests to group themselves in their own familiar circles of colleagues, associates, and cronies, letting them chat away until any one or number of them were summoned to briefly converse with him. At royal and aristocratic levees, an attendee insolent enough to approach the host was sure to be rebuffed. Even prime ministers and lord chancellors could not speak to a king or a member of the royal peerage unless spoken to. Ladies and gentlemen of the lower strata often held levees in the morning, in their bedchambers, and served coffee and repartee while their servants flitted about preparing their employers for public appearance. Royal and aristocratic levees rarely stooped to that level of discriminating intimacy.

Jones audited the servant who stood in the study of his new rooms by the Inns of Court. He had just moved here and wondered how the Duke of
Bedford had learned so quickly of his new residence. His servant was a tall, rough-looking fellow sporting an immaculate white wig, white stockings, silver-buckled shoes, green breeches, and a belaced green frock coat. He did not seem to be comfortable in the garb. He had been instructed, he said, to wait for a reply and stood patiently at a distance from Jones’s writing desk. Jones imagined that he had seen this man somewhere before, but put the thought out of his head because not even he paid much attention to the faces of lackeys. He opened and read the invitation, which had been sealed with the wax arms of the Duke of Bedford. He looked up from the invitation, crossed his legs, and asked, “Am I to be entertained at this midday soiree of caitiffs, or to provide the entertainment?”

The servant frowned, uncertain how to reply. Jones perceived a sly, offended intelligence in the blank blue eyes. “I do not know, sir,” replied the man. “His lordship did not enlighten me about the purpose of the invitation.”

Jones narrowed his eyes and hummed in thought. “Well, no matter. I have braved the entire House. I see no reason why I should endure a conclave of soused louts.” He held out the invitation. “Please inform
his grace
that I cannot oblige him, as I have a previous engagement with the Duchess of Britannia.” When the servant blinked in surprise, he added, “It is to a masque, you see. My hostess is to appear as Lady Liberty, and I shall go in the raiment of Algernon Sydney.” He smiled and waved the invitation once again. “
His grace
will understand the import of my regrets, and excuse it, if you do not.”

The messenger made an oddly pained face. “As you wish, sir.” He stepped forward, took the invitation, stepped back, bowed slightly, and said, “Good day to you, sir.” He turned smartly and left the room.