Revolution (31 page)

Tallmadge exclaimed with renewed astonishment, “Well, it seems that Mr. Pitt defends the colonials’ pockets, at the expense of their purses! Why, that single point of his muddles the mind!”

“Quite true, sir,” Jones said. “And in that muddle of contraries nests the destiny of the empire.”

Jones was wrought up by a frustrating impotence. In the last session, he had tried to introduce resolutions in the appropriate committees’ bills to open Parliament to public reporting; to allow private persons and members to criticize the king, the Crown, and Parliament without risk of penalty or charges of seditious libel; to abolish the duties on imported corn and tobacco. In every instance, he was rebuffed. Often, he had been advised not to pursue these subjects by wary members, barristers and sergeants-at-law like himself, who considered themselves advocates of British liberty.

Now, after Pitt’s speech, he felt honor bound to rise in the House at some important stage of the session to point out the contradictions in the Great Commoner’s address. This, he knew, would mean contradicting a powerful man, and possibly alienating himself from his allies. It would mean going counter to the direction he was certain the House was going. It was a guarantee of isolation and solitude.

Over the next two months, Jones would sleep little while the future of the Stamp Act was being decided in the Commons and Lords. He would watch the proceedings, powerless to alter the course of the debates, and could only observe a phenomenon he could not yet name. At one point in them, he remarked to Garnet Kenrick, “It is said that a watched pot never boils. This one fairly seethes with scalding water.”

He resigned himself early to defeat — in the Commons, even if repeal were passed, and at Cricklegate, in the company of Roger Tallmadge and Alice Kenrick. He resigned himself to defeat in the Commons, and to being no more to his beloved Alice than her “Uncle Dog.”

* * *

That same evening, at Windridge Court in Whitehall downriver, another supper was held, presided over by Basil Kenrick, the Earl of Danvers, convened on the advice of his key men in the Commons, Crispin Hillier, member for Onyxcombe, and Sir Henoch Pannell, member for Canovan. In the morning he had consulted with them and confirmed his understanding of the faults and contradictions that he, too, had noted in Pitt’s speech. He decided to call a parley of his bloc in the Commons, in order to instruct its members to emphasize those contradictions in their speeches and conversations, and to attempt to refute all pretensions of limitations on Parliament’s power.

From the head of the table, he said to the company before dessert was served, “We may lose the argument against repeal — Mr. Pitt has seen to that — but win the day on the subject of supremacy. Not even Mr. Pitt contests the legislative supremacy of the Crown. Thrice he confirmed it, by my count.”

“Why do you say that, your lordship?” asked Captain James Holets of the Foot Guards, and member for Oakhead Abbas, Essex.

“Because it is felt by certain individuals in both Houses that if repeal is adopted, some form of assertion, in the form of a declaratory resolution, must accompany it, necessarily and absolutely.” The Earl seemed to smile. “That is the opinion of no less an eminence than Lord Rockingham himself.”

“If I may add, your lordship,” said Crispin Hillier, “since Mr. Pitt has unarguably set the terms of debate, the dispute will now be chiefly over the wordings of the resolutions for repeal and declaration.”

Henoch Pannell glanced at the Earl, who with a nod gave him leave to speak. The member for Canovan said gruffly, “And Mr. Pitt has given us a word to use as a weapon in that dispute!”

“Which word is that, Sir Henoch?” asked Sir Fulke Treverlyn, member for Old Boothby, Cheshire, knighted in recognition of his successful prosecution of the ringleaders of the Skelly gang in Falmouth years ago. He now practiced law at the Court of Common Pleas. Sir Henoch, who had captured the ringleaders, renewed his acquaintance with the attorney shortly after his own entrance into the House.

“
Whatsoever
!” exclaimed Sir Henoch. “What fulminating folly!”

“An evil and encompassing term,” mused Sir Fulke to himself. “It may be employed to good purpose.”

Sir Henoch, who sat next to him at the table, remarked to him, “It will
prove to serve as salve for those who argue strenuously for repeal, sir.”

“Those with pudding for guts!” interjected Captain Holets contemptuously. He sat across from Sir Henoch. Holets was a veteran of the late war, and regarded the violence in the colonies against Crown officials and the stamp distributors as a justification for military reprisal. In hopes of securing a promotion to major, he had bombarded the late Duke of Cumberland, Lord Northington, and other policy “hawks” with many letters detailing the logistics, number of regiments, ships required, and timetables for an “offensive” against the colonies in the coming spring. “I still say that the Address from the House should advise His Majesty that the colonies are in a state of rebellion.”

On the Earl’s right sat Bevill Grainger, now Viscount of Wooten and Clarence, and retired Master of the Rolls at the King’s Bench. He ventured, “It was expected that Mr. Pitt would set the Commons and Lords on their ears, when he deigned to attend. I agree with his lordship the Earl that to argue against repeal from this point forward would be laudatory, though futile. Mr. Grenville doubtless will continue to argue that line. We may sympathize with him in that regard. After all, it is his child that will certainly be slandered in both Houses and libeled in the newspapers, and possibly even abandoned. However, it is said that while good winds too often bring bad news, bad winds may bring good news. Yesterday, Mr. Pitt was all that.”

“Yes, he was all that,” concurred Norbonne Berkeley, fourth Baron Botetourt, Lord of the Bedchamber and Lord Lieutenant of Gloucestershire, and, until he was raised to the peerage two years ago, member in the Commons for that county for over twenty years. He sat on the Earl’s left, and was the newest member of the Earl’s bloc. Attending Parliament was, for him, simply an excuse to come down to London to frequent its many gambling dens. He had voted in Lords for the Stamp Act, and now opposed repeal of it in a civil, suave, non-belligerent manner.

“Instead of debating repeal and a declaratory act,” he said calmly, “both Houses ought to reject every blasted petition from merchants and colonials, dismiss all the witnesses we will be painfully obliged to hear, and discuss instead the rewriting of every colonial charter. Repeal would become a moot point, if Parliament were made co-protector and -sponsor of the colonies with His Majesty. The colonies have a point there, concerning their charters, but it is a point that could be easily nullified, and ought to have been after the Act of Settlement ages ago. Then there would be no
question of Parliamentary supremacy and authority.” He glanced around the table in search of agreement.

He found it in the intrigued expressions of Sir Henoch and Sir Fulke, but Lord Wooten cautioned, “I am not certain His Majesty could be persuaded to share that power, milord Berkeley. It is unlikely he would relinquish any portion of it, even though he does not now exercise it, as some colonials seem to claim with odd bitterness.”

“There would be constitutional questions, milord, as well” added Hillier. “And Lord Camden would be sure to oppose it with more fervor than that with which he opposes general warrants.”

“I must concur with Lord Wooten and Mr. Hillier,” volunteered Sir Fulke. “Speaking as a lawyer, I understand that Lord Mansfield has ruled privately on the speciousness of most colonial charters.”

“Oh,” replied Botetourt, “Lord Camden would need to answer Lord Mansfield’s points of endorsement of the idea. And I am certain that some diligent under-secretaries in the Privy Council or Board of Trade could be found to study the problem and draft proposals amicable to His Majesty. Mr. Grenville employed a company of them to compose and refine the Stamp Act.”

The Earl said, almost in the manner of a command, “His Majesty cannot now decide whether he is for repeal or enforcement or modification of the Act, so it is unlikely he will fix his mind one way or another on that question any time soon.”

Lord Wooten frowned and clucked his tongue in admonition. “Why would you say that about His Majesty, your lordship? The poor fellow is beset by opinions and advice from such a multitude of quarters, I can’t imagine he knows where to turn or what to think.”

“He will not fix his mind until he knows which way the cards are dealt.” He glanced around the supper table. “Baron Berkeley, and you others here who are wedded to games, surely you should know better than I that His Majesty will not reveal his true hand until he is sure of the contents of his fellow players’ hands, and that it will take him some time to decide. His Majesty, after all, is a paragon of caution.” His guests could not decide whether their host was complimenting the king or mocking him. But that was the end of discussion of that matter.

Crispin Hillier remarked in the resulting conversational vacuum, “Word is that His Majesty will now seek to persuade Mr. Pitt to join the ministry.”

Baron Berkeley laughed once. “There is another doomed project, sir. France is more likely to cede us the Aquitaine and Calais than is Mr. Pitt to join any ministry he does not govern.”

Sir Henoch glanced at the Earl. “Your lordship, may I propose a toast of gratitude to Mr. Pitt? I think we are all agreed here that he has rescued us from a bothersome conundrum!”

The Earl seemed to smile again, and nodded in appreciation of the ironic suggestion.

Sir Henoch held up his glass of brandy and proclaimed, “To William Pitt, the Great Commoner, whom we may now also call the Great
Confabulator
! Here’s to
repeal
!”

The company laughed with him, and raised glasses in answer and agreement. Basil Kenrick joined in silent approval of the toast, and drank with the rest of his bloc.

Later in the evening, when the most of the guests had departed, Hillier and Pannell lingered on, although going through the motions of departure. Sir Henoch addressed his host. “Your lordship, I had the honor of breakfasting with the Bishop of London today, and he brought these to my attention. He and I thought you might be interested in them, as well.” He took from his frock coat two pamphlets and presented them to the Earl. “They were sent to him by a correspondent and colleague of the cloth in Virginia. You may keep these, of course. Bishop Terrick was sent two sets of them and had copies made. One in particular interests me, and the other may particularly interest your lordship.”

The Earl took the pamphlets and glanced at the title pages. One contained the name “Jack Frake.” It meant nothing to him. On the other, he saw the title,
The Chimney Swifts of Chicanery
, “by Hugh Kenrick, Esq., Virginia Gentleman.” He grunted once in surprise, then glanced at Sir Henoch. “Thank you, Sir Henoch, for the courtesy. But what caused you to believe I would be interested in these?”

Sir Henoch braved, “You have your devils, your lordship, and I have mine.” When the Earl did not reply, he added, “In the letter to Reverend Terrick that accompanied these pamphlets, his correspondent related that my devil, Mr. Frake, whom I sent to the colonies as a felon many years ago, and your nephew, were directly responsible for obstructing Crown officers in their duties regarding the stamps. Successfully, I might add. Reverend Terrick, I am sure, would be happy to share with you those and other details of the incident, your lordship.” After another pause, he added, “I
think you will see that they are both tracts of treason.”

“I am certain they are. Thank you for the information, Sir Henoch,” sighed the Earl. “I will peruse them.” He nodded to Pannell, and then to Crispin Hillier. “And good night to you both.”

When they were gone, Basil Kenrick wandered down the hall and into his study. Here he tugged on a bell-pull to signal Claybourne, his valet, that he wished to retire soon. He lit a pump lamp on his desk, sat down, and glanced through his nephew’s pamphlet for a moment. His face grew progressively redder as he absorbed and grasped his nephew’s prescient characterization of not only Parliament’s conduct concerning the Stamp Act matter, but his own and his guests’ parley this evening. He was frankly dumbfounded by his nephew’s ability to foretell such things.

Most assuredly, his nephew had sent copies of the pamphlet to his brother in Chelsea, and to that annoying lackey of his, Sir Dogmael Jones, and they both had had a good laugh.

When Claybourne appeared in the study, the Earl angrily tossed the pamphlet onto his desk. Scowling petulantly up at the man, he exclaimed, “A devil indeed! A thousand leagues away, yet he still manages to provoke me!”

The valet, ignorant of the cause of his employer’s fury, merely blinked in surprise, but limited his reply to a practiced expression of mute contrition.

* * *

I
f purblind consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, then the terms of the debates over repeal and enforcement of the Stamp Act were set by one outstanding mind whose errors were seized upon and exploited by a passel of vicious little ones. They were all, if nothing else, consistent and uncompromising. The Grenvillites in the Commons and the Bedfordites in Lords hammered away at the idea of repeal. But, if resigned to repeal, they demanded that it be accompanied by a declaration that would essentially render it meaningless. They were certain that victory could be had even in defeat.

Pitt was openly contemptuous of both Houses and the motives of their members who demanded enforcement of the Stamp Act. He detected a species of fear in most of his colleagues which he sensed went beyond mere practical politics. He was too much of a gentleman to name it in private conversation or public address, but was haughtily determined to confound and defeat it. Perhaps it was his knowledge of and association with such fearful men that contributed to his chronic bouts of melancholy depression.

Those who opposed repeal were also contemptuous of the politics and even of each other, but their livelihoods depended on the range of authority wielded by Parliament and on the lucre derived from such authority in all the Crown’s purviews. It was more desperation than commitment to any higher, disinterested end that moved them to argue for the preservation of that authority.

And during the debates, they did not disguise their desire to obstruct Pitt. Here was a great man, they saw, greater than anyone in either House; they knew this and wished him to acknowledge his own folly and just how impractical and obstinate he was being. He was an affront to all their pretensions of nobility, dignity, and concern for the Crown’s solvency. If they could not be rid of him, they wished to reduce him in stature, to make him more manageable and familiar, and consequently less to be feared.

So, despite the advice of Benjamin Franklin to Lord Dartmouth, president of the Board of Trade, that enforcement of the Act might cause “more mischief than it was worth”; despite the observation of General Thomas
Gage on the Stamp Act Congress that “the question is not of the inexpediency of the Stamp Act, or of the inability of the colonies to pay the tax, but that it is unconstitutional and contrary to their rights”; despite the repressed suspicion that the colonies were not protesting merely a shilling tax on a pack of playing cards or a sixpence tax on a copy of a will; and despite a growing miasma of doubt in both Houses about the wisdom of the Act and its expected windfall in revenues, a miasma that clouded the character of their debates, the reigning policy in the Commons and Lords was a flat refusal to question the right
whatsoever
of Parliament to impose any tax or control on the colonies.

This refusal assumed the outward character of incorruptible principle, and allowed many members of the Commons to oppose repeal with righteous anger, such as Colonel Thomas Molyneux, member for Haslemere, who at one point assailed an “ungrateful America. Shall we stay ’til some Oliver rises up amongst them? Four sorts of people appear among them: hypocrites, agitators, preachers, and levelers!”

“Also, patriots and men of honor and industry,” said Jones to Molyneux in the coffee room of the House later that day.

“Excuse me, sir?” asked the member for Haslemere, turning with surprise to him.

“Very few of
those
to be found in this other hospital for invalids,” said Jones. He paid the servant at the bar for the beverage, and gave the man a halfpenny gratuity. It was seven o’clock in the evening. The room was filling up with members seeking refreshments and respite from the debates in the chamber.

Molyneux, after he too had paid the servant, turned to Jones and replied, with tentative frost allayed by doubt, “You have lost me, sir,” for he was unsure whether or not he was being insulted.

“I refer to your speech today and the prisoners you name in the dock of treason. If you believe that the colonials are being shepherded in their outrage by hypocrites and agitators, then you underestimate them and you will lose the colonies. But I have heard that preachers there command more attention than ours do here — when they preach liberty, which they often do these times. As for the levelers, I am certain they would object to a grasping Cromwell with more fury than they would for a mere stamp distributor. And surely you have heard of the misfortunes of some of those chaps.”

Molyneux frowned in genuine confusion and replied with some irritation,
“God’s truth, sir, I don’t know whether to agree with you or take offense!” Then he narrowed his eyes, and said, “I know
you
, sir! You are the fellow who insulted the House last session!”

“And I may find it necessary to insult it again.”

“If you do, sir, you may find your cheeks smarting from several pairs of gloves!” Molyneux sniffed in dismissal, then turned and strode to another part of the crowded room to join some cronies.

Jones smiled in amusement and sipped his coffee. “Doubtless, yours will be the first.”

A familiar, mellifluous voice behind him remarked, “Collecting friends again, Sir Dogmael?”

Jones turned to face the great bulk of Sir Henoch Pannell. “I love thee not. Therefore, pursue me not,” he answered. By mutual agreement and animosity, the two had conspicuously avoided each other since passage of the Stamp Act in the last session of Parliament.

Pannell chuckled and shook his head. “Doubtless, you plagiarize another bard unknown to me.”

“No. Just the usual one.”

“Why, I half expected you to have risen across the aisle by now to assail us with half a dozen bardish gems, steeped in your own novel notions,” Pannell said. “I am gravely disappointed. We do need our entertainment in such grave affairs as this, you know.” Henoch Pannell waved a hand to indicate the coffee room and the chamber beyond the closed oaken doors, through which a speaker could still be heard. Pannell exuded a genuine air of jollity the whole two months of debates, in sharp contrast to the humorless determination of other members on both sides of the question. He was one of the few who were certain that victory could be had in defeat. The Crown would have a revenue from its British “flora” in North America, by hook or by crook. A declaratory act, he had been privately assuring allies in the House, would guarantee it, backed, if necessary, by an increase in the garrisons there and a more vigorous prosecution of the myriad strictures of the navigation laws.

“I am biding my time, and will strike at a moment of my choosing,” Jones said.

“You know,” said Pannell, “you really oughtn’t to burden military fellows like Colonel Molyneux with such high-flying talk. Most of them sport walnuts for brains. They may take it as abuse, and call you out to pistols. You heard the dear Colonel.” The member for Canovan sipped his tea.

Jones shrugged and tasted his coffee. “I face my mortality every day, Sir Henoch, as I search for a proof against stealthy eavesdroppers.”

“Yes, of course. So do we all. But you would face expulsion from the House only once, if you insult it, as you promised the Colonel you would. You know the rules.”

“I will speak my mind, nevertheless.”

“So said Mr. Wilkes. You know what happened to him.” Pannell laughed. “He is not
here
.”

“He will be back. The rogue has champions here. I will be one of them.”

“Why, that fellow is a worse bounder than I believe you think I am, sir! And you propose to enter the lists in his cause? That is most confabulating indeed, as confabulating as Mr. Pitt’s speech, wouldn’t you agree?” When Jones did not reply to his question, he shook his head. “It is beyond my ken!”

Jones smiled pointedly. “Much is,” he remarked.

“There you go again, chiding me for my ignorance,” laughed Pannell, indifferent to the slight. Then he frowned in mock seriousness. “Speaking of books, lately I have been reading Lord Wooten’s book on collateral justice. Fascinating stuff. I hear it’s got all the benches in a dither. Have you read it?”

Jones remembered Sir Bevill Grainger’s remarks on the subject from years ago when the former Master of the Rolls presided over the Pippins’ trial. “Yes, I have perused a few of its pages. I was present when he took his first notes on the subject.” He paused. “It surprises me that you would bother to tackle something as difficult as a judicial theory, even one as disturbingly degenerate as Lord Wooten’s.”

“Well, there you are, sir! It pleases me that I have shocked you, for once! Degenerate, you say? Rather, revolutionary! Try a man for his charged crimes, find him guilty of all the others he weren’t tried for, or was suspected of, and toss in a few more years or even the noose, if the judge and jury have a mind to!” Pannell grinned. “It was
my
idea, you know, though I could never have worked out the details. Never had the time! However, I have written Lord Wooten about how his notion could be applied to the colonial problem. Round up all the upstarts there and hang them for treason! Or at least sentence them to a turn in Jamaica or the Barbados to harvest cane, where they would meet much the same end, with the sun as their hangman.” Pannell’s broad face brightened. “Here’s a notion, sir! Have supper with me tonight at my place in Canovan, and you can explain to me why you now sport such a sour phiz!”

“Thank you, Sir Henoch,” answered Jones, shaking his head, “but wisdom would be wasted on you, just as it might have been on Judge Jeffreys.” He saw that Pannell did not grasp his allusion to the Bloody Assizes, and finished his coffee. “Or, shall I say, the labor would be lost? So, before I return to my seat, I leave you with an appropriate bardish gem to contemplate: ‘A world of torments though I should endure, I would not yield to be our house’s guest, so much I hate the breaking cause to be of heavenly oaths, vowed with integrity.’”

Pannell grinned with an appreciation that startled even himself. “That’s pretty, sir! It almost rhymes, it does! What fellow is credited with that?”

“Not a fellow,” sighed Jones, surprised that Pannell did not ask what it meant, “but a Princess of France.” With a slight nod of his head, he turned, handed his cup to a passing factotum, and made for the oaken doors and the chamber beyond.

Pannell trailed behind him across the room. “You know, Sir Dogmael, there’s no reason why we can’t be friends. We have such diverting chats. I own that each time we trade insults, I walk away a little wiser. I mean, we know each other well enough that our politics oughtn’t to interfere at all. ”

Jones paused to turn and answer, “Well, you must also own that, from my perspective, it would hardly be a fair trade, something akin to the relationship between the colonies and the Crown. So, I must say of you what I have heard has been said of the late Duke of Cumberland, and urge you to adopt it as your own rule, as well.”

“What is that?”

“Those who knew him best, liked him least, or not at all. Good night to you, sir.” Jones turned and left the noise of the coffee room for the noise of the House chamber.

Pannell grimaced sadly and shook his head. “Difficult fellow, that Jones.”

Jones slept irregularly those two months, for the debates in the Commons usually began in mid-afternoon and often lasted until the early hours of the next day. He attended the Commons daily, not wanting to miss an important speech or motion, dividing his resting times between his rooms near the Inns of Court and Cricklegate in Chelsea. He was particularly interested in hearing the testimony of the witnesses. Benjamin Franklin was scheduled to be questioned — or rather interrogated by a hostile House, he warned the Pennsylvanian during a supper at William Meredith’s house one
evening — and he wanted to put some questions to that man when he was called. Also, Colonel George Mercer of Virginia was scheduled to testify, and he had some particular questions to put to that man, as well.

Often he would appear at two o’clock in the morning at the Kenricks’ house in Chelsea, bleary-eyed, unshaven, unkempt, to be admitted by one of the servants. In the mornings, while Owen Runcorn shaved him, he would report the previous day’s events in the House to Garnet Kenrick, then breakfast with the Kenricks and Roger Tallmadge before departing with the lieutenant by carriage for another round of debates or his barrister obligations at the King’s Bench in Westminster Hall adjacent to the Commons.

When he returned to his rooms on Chancery Lane near the Serjeants’ Inn, he would gaze wistfully at the mass of unorganized papers that was his own book on the subject of property and public places, hoping that after this session of Parliament he would find more time to devote to its further progress. His occasional secretary and amanuensis, Winslow LeGrand, was assisting him with the research for that book and also with his correspondence.

One morning in mid-February at Cricklegate, he was awakened by one of the Kenricks’ servants and informed that his sponsor had been summoned by his brother the Earl to Windridge Court. The Baron wished him to accompany him to London. He hurriedly dressed, shaved himself, and joined his friend downstairs for a quick breakfast. Then, as the carriage made its way to Westminster through the chilly, charcoal gray fog, Jones asked, “Why does he want to see you?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Jones,” said Garnet Kenrick as the carriage rumbled over the road. “The footman who delivered the note could or would not say. Bridgette, who received the note, said he did not tarry long enough for a reply, but remounted and rode away before she could even close the door.” After a moment, he mused, “It can’t be about estate business. I sent him the accounts and his draft a month ago, and I should have heard from him sooner if something had been amiss.”

Jones merely drummed his fingers on the top of the satchel on his lap. He had never voiced an opinion about his sponsor’s brother, although he was certain the Baron knew what he thought of the Earl. The Baron had often railed against his brother in his presence, but Jones did not presume to criticize the Earl himself. It was a rule he vowed never to break, if only for decorum’s sake. He had never related to the Baron the Earl’s ruse last year with the false invitation to the Duke of Bedford’s residence.