Revolution (11 page)

Steven Safford spoke up from the back of the room. “I am willing to see it altered, if that is necessary.”

Jack nodded in thanks to the publican. “Fine. Mr. Reisdale, if you please.”

Reisdale’s inkwell, minutes ledger, and elbows were resting on the canton that bore the cross of St. George. The attorney promptly removed them.

Jack picked up a corner of the flag and pointed to the stripes. “There are thirteen stripes here, and each can represent one of the principal colonies, at least the ones that were most on Mr. Grenville’s mind when he and his placemen concocted the Stamp Act. I propose that they be left intact, except to have sewn on one of the white stripes the name of our organization.” He dropped the corner. “Is this agreed?”

The members said “Aye.”

“But why only thirteen stripes?” queried one of the members. “There are over twenty provinces that come under the Stamp Act.”

“We will not include the Canadian and Caribbean colonies, nor even the Floridas,” answered Jack. “We have had no news of protests from those quarters, so we may rightfully assume they will submit to the stamps.” He glanced around in search of disagreement with his reasoning. He saw none. He continued, and pointed to the canton. “I further propose that the cross here be replaced with a plain blue field with our newly adopted motto emblazoned in gold letters.”

One man asked, “Do you mean, replace the cross?”

“Yes.”

“That is too much, sir!” objected one of the former doubters. “Such a device smacks of…secession!”

Jack said, “Not so, sir. This is to be a private device of a private association. It is no more provocative than the Masons’ use of the compass in their own device.”

“This is true,” concurred Hugh. He continued. “Besides, the adopted motto does not agree with the canton as it is now. It needs a proper background, an agreeable field.” He paused. His face lit up, and his eyes became bright. “
Cobalt
, sirs,” he said. “A field of
cobalt
. The richest blue. A proper
background for gold.”

No one, not even Jack Frake, knew that Hugh was prompted by the sudden recollection of the words of his dying friend, Glorious Swain, on the Charing Cross pillory:
The sky is growing more blue…a royal cobalt…the canopy of Olympus.…
Hugh said, in the manner of a dedication, “The canton must be cobalt.”

Jack sensed that this color was for some reason important to his friend. He said, “Then the gold shall sit in a field of cobalt. Is this agreed?”

The membership assented.

“Who would alter the jack, or sew a new one?” asked one of the members.

Jack said, “Lydia Heathcoate.” The woman was Caxton’s finest seamstress and owned the town’s sole millinery. She often repaired the jacks and pennants of the merchantmen that called on the town. “Each of us will contribute something to pay her for the task. Is this agreed?”

It was agreed.

Later, as they rode together in the dark back to their plantations, Jack asked Hugh why he had insisted on cobalt.

With some emotion, Hugh explained the moment on the Charing Cross pillory.

When Hugh had finished, Jack smiled in fondness for the gesture and for his friend.

* * *

O
ne day in late September, news arrived in Caxton, from the captains and sailors of some merchantmen anchored there and at Yorktown, that the stamp distributors for New York and New Jersey had resigned in the face of threats to their property. That same day, Edgar Cullis returned with his father from their outing in the Piedmont. The next afternoon, Edgar Cullis rode to Meum Hall to call on Hugh Kenrick.

Hugh was in the hot fields, supervising the topping of his tobacco and appraising his other crops, when Spears came out and informed him of his visitor. He accompanied the valet back to the great house. He did not bother changing into more formal garb, as he might have for other gentleman visitors, but merely freshened his face with handfuls of water, and ordered some tea brought into his study. He found Cullis leafing through one of his books, Le Sage’s
The Bachelor of Salamanca.
Hugh nodded in silent greeting, and waved his fellow burgess to a chair in front of his desk. Cullis nodded in answer, then gently returned the novel and took a seat.

“I trust that your expedition was a success, Mr. Cullis,” said Hugh, sitting in his chair behind the desk. His hand rested on his brass top, which was always there, and toyed with it during the interview.

“Yes,” replied Cullis, who looked tan and leaner now. “We bagged five wolves and two litters of them. Also, we shot one great cat that had been stalking us, and accompanied a party of shirtmen as they tracked some bison.” He paused, feeling uncomfortable under Hugh’s steady scrutiny. “Yes, thank you. It was a success, our expedition. Then we repaired to Warm Springs, where my father took the waters for his rheumatism. He is better now.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” remarked Hugh.

Cullis smiled nervously. “We encountered rain,” he added, in reference to the drought that had baked many of the Tidewater’s crop fields this year. “I must say that it was a relief to be soaked by it, even for the inconvenience it caused us.”

“It rained some here, as well,” said Hugh. He paused. “I trust you have been informed of Mr. Barret’s death.”

“We learned of it upon our return home,” said Cullis with a sigh. “We were saddened by the news.” Before Hugh could query him further on that subject, which he expected but nonetheless dreaded, he cleared his throat and rushed to say, “Before returning home, however, we stopped briefly in Williamsburg. I was unexpectedly summoned by Mr. Robinson and Mr. Randolph on House business.”

“There is no House to do business, sir,” said Hugh.

Cullis flashed a brief smile. “No Assembly has been called, it is true. But it is known that many members will ignore the Governor’s announcement of a delay of the first session of the new Assembly, and come to the Capitol, before the General Court sits, chiefly to attend the theater, for private business, and for other purposes.”

“There is a question of whether or not the General Court will be able to sit,” replied Hugh.

“Why would you doubt it?” asked the visiting burgess. His host’s manner was curt. He had expected that, too, but still did not like it.

Hugh shrugged. “If no lawyers or stamps arrive to facilitate court business, then there will be no General Court. There is also a question of whether or not our county court will sit before that, for the same reasons.”

There was a knock on the study door and Fiona Chance, the cook, came in with the tea. Hugh smiled in amusement. Usually it was Rachel, the cook’s black kitchen assistant, who brought refreshments into the study. But he assumed that Fiona knew about his dislike of Cullis, and wanted to see for herself how the visit was progressing. When she had arranged the tray on Hugh’s desk, served the men the tea, and had gone, Hugh said, “But enough about the Court. What other business did you conduct in the Capitol?”

Cullis sipped his beverage before answering. Then he put down the cup and said, “Although there can be no formal session, in view of the Governor’s proroguement, the Speaker and Attorney-General believe it would be an opportunity for those who do come to Williamsburg to participate in the formal passage of some bills left over from last December, and their entry into the House journal.” He paused. “It is hoped that you will attend, even though you negatived virtually all the bills outstanding. Mr. Randolph and Mr. Robinson expect there will be enough members present in town to form a scratch quorum.”

Hugh’s brow creased in perplexity. “But, if no session of the Assembly sits next month, Mr. Cullis, how can laws be credited to it?”

This time Cullis shrugged. “It is a mere formality. The Speaker, Attorney-General, and Council all feel that to wait to carry them over to the next actual sitting would be inconvenient and overly tardy.”

Hugh sampled his own tea. “It is irregular and flirts with fraud, sir,” he said. “Posterity will believe that a session occurred, when in truth none had.”

“Irregular, but necessary, from an administrative perspective,” answered Cullis. “The commutation of bills from one session to its successor is certainly no precedent. I believe I instructed you in that practice some time ago.”

Hugh nodded. “Yes, you did, but then you spoke of sessions that had not been prorogued. Well, that is the risk of Mr. Robinson and Mr. Randolph. Still, I would not attend this ghostly Assembly, for the reasons I have just cited. And a true assembly is to sit in New York next month. I will be there to observe it.”

Cullis frowned and sat up. “On whose authority?”

Hugh scoffed. “My own, sir. I need none from the House to go in a private capacity.”

Cullis put down his cup and saucer thoughtfully, and rose from his chair. “I beg your pardon, sir, but you are a member of the House, and need to be selected as a delegate by it. This so-called ‘congress’ is irregular, and your action will be irregular. Why, you could be censured by the House, or even expelled by it!”

Hugh smiled. “These are irregular times, sir, that call for irregular actions.” He paused. “And who would make a motion to censure or expel me? You, perhaps?”

Cullis stiffened. “It will be my duty to inform the House of your intentions.”

“But there is no House to inform, sir,” replied Hugh, rising from his chair. With a hand, he moved his cup and saucer aside on the desktop. “Just as there was no House to inform the Governor of the danger of choosing delegates to that congress, or about Mr. Barret’s role in disseminating Mr. Henry’s resolves.” He shook his head. “You were party to some very grave and ramifying irregularities, Mr. Cullis, and you have not been forthright about it. Neither have Mr. Randolph, Mr. Robinson, and very likely Mr. Wythe.”

Cullis could only manage to reply, “I…deny it! And, you impugn dishonor not only to me, but also to those…fine men! His honor the Governor prorogued the Assembly on his own initiative, to prevent just the kind of foolishness and recklessness you plan to commit! And your presence in New York will be misinterpreted, sir! Surely, you must introduce yourself to those…renegades as a member of our House!”

“Surely, but as a private person and a patriot,” answered Hugh. “It is the view of more thoughtful men in this county that it would be a disgrace if Virginia were not represented in some form at the congress. I have agreed to go, to maintain our country’s honor.”

“
Our country’s honor!
” spat Cullis. “Again, I beg your pardon, sir, but you will only dishonor the House, and Virginia, and impute treason to them into the bargain!”

Hugh’s congenial visage hardened now. “I can only repeat Mr. Henry’s words, sir: If this be treason, let us make the most of it.” He added with a contempt of whose object Cullis could not be certain, himself or Parliament, “It is not the prey who proposes treason here, sir, but the prowler.” He nodded to the study door, and folded his arms. “Good day to you, Mr. Cullis.”

Edgar Cullis glared at his host with lips pressed hard together in angry restraint. Then he snatched up his hat and put it on. “Why was not I consulted about this matter, this…seditious gambol to New York? We are this county’s burgesses, and ought to act in concert!”

Hugh shook his head. “You were away, sir, hunting wolves in the hills, while we were preparing to trap some in this very county, come November.”

Cullis’s curiosity, whetted by this last reply, was greater than his desire to escape. Hugh seemed to know this, and simply stared at him with a subtle dare in his expression to ask him questions he would not answer. Cullis steeled himself and grimaced in disgust at his defeat. “Good day to you, as well, sir,” he said. He turned on his heel and left.

From his study window, Hugh watched his fellow burgess mount his horse in the yard and ride away.

* * *

“I have essayed a project that Mr. Barlow Trecothick, a former American here in London, and an alderman of the city to boot, is rumored to be contemplating,
which is to solicit the views of merchants far and wide, concerning the Stamp Tax, and to perhaps persuade them to act in a body to recommend to the Commons its relaxation or modification, if not its repeal,” wrote Dogmael Jones in another letter to Hugh. “If the Commons last sitting would not receive American petitions, protests, and advice over the likely consequences of the Act, then perhaps my colleagues will listen to and heed the remonstrances of the merchants and factors here. The newspapers, coffeehouses, and Royal Exchange are all abuzz with worry and trepidation. As the merchants’ purses become lighter and their account books painful to peruse, their complaints grow louder over the present reduced trade and the likely mischief of the Act. But I believe they are blind to the nub. The question for the colonials is ever more not so much one of ruined trade or the effects of a concerted abstinence from it, as one of proper authority over trade on the whole. The arguments must advance even further, on your side of the ocean, to the true distinction between the kinds of unrest arising here and there from this conflict. You and your fellow British-Americans are closer to it, I believe, and in it will find your unassailable argument, leaving us poor benighted souls far behind, westering with tattered sails beneath a smoky sky for an elusive sun we have yet to glimpse.”

It was late September. Hugh’s desk was piled up with more letters from his father and Jones, together with newspapers and pamphlets from other colonies. There were also letters from Otis Talbot and Novus Easley in Philadelphia reporting events in the northern colonies and closer to Virginia.

Riots had occurred all over Rhode Island. The stamp distributor for Connecticut resigned after he was threatened with lynching. The distributor for Maryland fled to New York after his house was destroyed by a mob. The distributor for New Hampshire resigned at the request of his countrymen before he even stepped off the vessel that brought him from England to Boston Harbor. The distributor for New Jersey resigned without prompting. The distributor for New York resigned from fear of the consequences to his property if he did not.

Merchants, artisans, farmers, planters, and lawyers in Virginia all remarked to their friends, families, and associates: George Grenville, author of the Act, had surrendered the seals of office. Would Mr. Mercer have the decency to surrender his appointment? Ominously, in Westmoreland County in northern Virginia, George Mercer and George Grenville
were hanged in effigy.

Hugh could hardly contain himself for all the news that seemed to arrive each day. Buried under the pile somewhere was even a pathetic note from Lieutenant-Governor Fauquier, who apologized in it for his “transparent and unforgivable rudeness” to Hugh “when you last called here on the
Courier
matter,” and went on to express his “desperate misgivings” for the “madness of the people in these times,” and concluded with a plea for understanding. “In confidence, and as a measure of my own sincere sorrow for the current troubles, you should know that some years ago, during the late war, and not long after my own arrival here, Mr. Pitt himself queried me on the best way to pay for the war and the maintenance of the colonies, and proposed just such a tax as that which now distresses schooled and unschooled people alike. I answered him with the most delicate apprehension as that such a measure would occasion great uproars and disturbances.…”

Hugh read that letter, and could feel only a twinge of pity for the man.

This afternoon he sat with Jack Frake in Safford’s King’s Arms Tavern, over tankards of port at a table by the window in the main room. He would leave for Hampton in two days, driven in the sulky by Spears, and there find a billet on a coastal vessel bound for New York. He hoped to reach the town a few days before the opening of the congress in early October, then return. “I want to be here when the General Court opens,” he said to Jack. “It will be interesting to see what happens, with or without stamps.”

“Etáin has joined Widow Heathcoate in fashioning our banner,” said Jack. “It should be ready by the time you return.”

Hugh chuckled in mild amusement. “I did not know Etáin could sew.”

Jack shook his head, also amused. “Not so finely as Widow Heathcoate, who has apprenticed her to the art.”

Steven Safford, owner of the tavern, approached them with fresh tankards of port, and in the bargain brought them news of another incident, relayed to him earlier by the master of a lumber boat from the Northern Neck. An effigy of Mercer had been tied to a horse and paraded through the river port town of Dumfries on the Potomac, then taken to a tree and hanged. Safford took their coins and walked way to serve other patrons.

“It has always astounded me,” remarked Hugh in a low voice, “the volume of intelligence that man can collect with his one ear.” A musket ball had removed the publican’s left ear during the Louisbourg campaign.

Almost directly across Queen Anne Street from the tavern was the former residence and shop of Wendel Barret and the
Courier
. Sitting in front of it now was a wide, oxen-teamed wagon. William Fletcher, the late printer’s brother-in-law, had come down from Fredericksburg to collect his nephew, Travis Barret, and the shop’s contents. The boy and the apprentice slave, Cletus, had been staying with Sheriff Cabal Tippet until they could be claimed by nearest kin. Fletcher met with Thomas Reisdale, Barret’s attorney, and learned that he would need to either sell or auction off much of the property, including the house and shop, to pay the late printer’s debts. Reisdale, who had Barret’s account books, however, assured him that sale of the land and the building on it would more than satisfy the printer’s creditors.