Revolution (36 page)

He raised his cane and shouted, “Charge your bayonets, sons of liberty, close ranks, and follow me! Long live Lady Liberty!” and rushed headlong
at the gang. Startled, the men scattered, reformed to encircle him, then swiftly closed in on him and did the deed for which they had been paid a pound a piece to do. Koshes, cudgels, and staves whipped up in the frigid air and flailed away. Thumps and grunts broke the silence. Lamplight glinted faintly off a knife blade as it rose and fell. A man bellowed in pain when mahogany met his skull. It was not the member for Swansditch.

When it was done, and the body moved no more, it was relieved of its cane, hat, cloak, watch, and shoes. And money. More would have been taken, but at that moment a lamp on a pole rounded the corner, the light of a pair of watchmen. The gang rose from its feast of loot and ran.

A lone witness, wrapped in a cloak and scarf so that only the eyes were visible, huddled in the shadow of a doorway. When the watchmen became distracted by the sight of a body in the middle of the street, and cautiously brought their light closer to see, the figure slunk quietly away in the wake of the fleeing gang.

* * *

“W
hat do you think of this?” asked the Earl of Danvers of John Montagu, fourth Earl of Sandwich, some days later over coffee in the Cocoa Tree near Westminster Hall. He pointed to an item in the
London Weekly Journal
, and handed the newspaper to Sandwich.

Sandwich, who had contemptuously declaimed in a speech in Lords against both repeal and the Commons as an anarchical instance of “that democratic interest which this House was constituted to restrain,” read the item, which briefly reported the murder of Sir Dogmael Jones, member for Swansditch, by persons unknown. He immediately handed the paper back to his companion. “What do I think of it?
Ought
I to think of it? Not at all, Lord Danvers! But, I will tell you this: It ought to be the
common
fate of half the
lower
House!” He frowned when his peer failed to acknowledge the jest with so much as a grin. Sandwich was known for his good humor, and few were immune to it. Disappointed, he then asked, “Why do you inquire? How could such a trifle concern you? Why should it concern anyone?”

Basil Kenrick shrugged in turn. “The chap was my brother’s man in that lower House. He made a particularly offensive address there, and was subsequently challenged, I have heard, by a number of members there, whom he rebuffed in an equally offensive and cowardly manner. Or, so it is said.”

“Would that had happened to that knave, John Wilkes,” remarked Sandwich. “Then we should be spared the worry that he might return to bedevil us.” He shook his head and grumbled, “But, no, Mr. Martin merely knacked him in the arm in that duel, on the second exchange. Poor shots, these commoners.” Samuel Martin, member for Camelford and a friend of Lord Bute, had called Wilkes a “cowardly scoundrel” over remarks about him in
The North Briton
. Following the duel, Wilkes fled to Paris to escape the courts.

“Well,” said Basil Kenrick, “at least Mr. Wilkes attempted to defend his
honor. Sir Dogmael, it seems, had none that he cared to defend.” He did not pursue the subject. He was satisfied that no one of consequence suspected his role in the matter. He had already asked Bedford and Halifax.

Nor did he pursue the subject when Crispin Hillier and Sir Henoch Pannell made circumspect inquiries about the murder. “You are as much informed of the matter as am I,” he said to them with bluntness. “He was set upon by a band of rakehells. It appears the man was foolhardy, as well as
radical
. The two phenomena often occur in pairs, as you yourself, Sir Henoch, once pointed out to me.”

“So I did, your lordship,” conceded Pannell, recalling the occasion, and not a little flattered that the Earl would remember.

The two members were reluctant to entertain the possibility that the Earl was in some way complicit. Pannell limited his comments to, “Well, I shall miss him, for he was good for an occasional verbal joust.”

“Many in the House will not miss him,” Hillier added. “His verbal indiscretions are likely what led to his demise. A blustery and provocative sort, he was.” He cast a last inquiring glance at the Earl. But the Earl’s face was set in stone. The subject, therefore, was closed. He could not decide whether the Earl was uncomfortable with the subject or bored.

He and Pannell, having discarded their repressed suspicions, satisfied themselves with the more credible possibilities that Jones’s death was either a consequence of an unfortunate encounter with criminals, or of an intrigue by members whom they knew had challenged him to a duel.

In the Commons, the would-be duelists, seven in all, exchanged furtive glances, wondering who among them had resorted to the ruse. But none of them was brave enough to raise the subject.

The night watchmen had known Jones, who had often paid them a kindness with civil banter and an occasional shilling for a draught of warming ale in a nearby tavern. One of them went to fetch Winslow LeGrand at his parents’ tobacconist’s shop on Fleet Street. LeGrand immediately hired a hackney to take him to Chelsea to break the news to the Kenricks.

Jones had no immediate family, at least none that Garnet Kenrick knew of, nor did he know where in Wales he had come from. He bought a plot for Jones in St. Giles in the Fields, paid for the casket and a tombstone, and grieved with the rest of his family. The news affected Alice Kenrick so much that she was bedridden for three days. Indeed, the entire household
grieved. Owen Runcorn, Bridgette, and many on the staff at Cricklegate had frequently been the object of Jones’s generosity.

Garnet Kenrick told his wife at the funeral, “When we can return to Danvers, I will have him removed to the family vault there.”

“Your brother would not permit it, Garnet,” warned Effney Kenrick.

“He will have nothing to say about it, by then.”

Roger Tallmadge volunteered to “take up the spy” in the Commons in hopes of learning who had arranged Jones’s ambush. After several days of discreet enquiries, he could report nothing. With disgust he told the Baron, “They must have sworn to an oath of silence that I cannot breach, sir, on pain of excommunication from their club, if they broke it, or on pain of perhaps the same fate.”

In his study at Cricklegate, the Baron sat reading through the papers and documents he had retrieved from Jones’s rooms. Among the papers was a draft of the speech he had made in the Commons that drew on Jack Frake’s pamphlet, with acknowledgements in the margins of the author for many of the points Jones made in the address.

Some irony occurred to him then. He happened to glance up at the Italian bronze statue of Hermes on his desk that he had brought from Danvers. Around Hermes’s neck was the black satin mourning ribbon he had attached to it years ago, after he read the accounts then of the executions of the leaders of the Skelly gang in Falmouth. The ribbon represented a paradox to him, a mystery to be solved. Now, things seemed to be clear to him. Jack Frake had been a member of that gang. Through Jones, he had spoken in the Commons.

He reached over and untied the ribbon. A son of Hermes had spoken, he thought. Another had listened, and had spoken in turn. And now was dead. He agreed with Dogmael Jones and Jack Frake. In time, all the sons of Hermes across an ocean would refuse to deal with the mortals of England.

He gently retied the ribbon to Hermes’s caduceus, in memory of Jones’s warning of war. Or was it Jack Frake’s? He decided that they were both messengers.

He made his own enquiries in the Commons about the men who had challenged Jones. Every member he spoke to denied any knowledge of a cabal to force the late member into a duel. The denials uniformly exuded the character of lying. He forgave Roger Tallmadge his youth for not having been sensible to it. He very nearly was tempted to challenge Colonel
Thomas Molyneux, who at first retorted, “The cad bolted from me, and I’m sure he got thirty paces before his assailants caught up with him that night. Typical behavior of a chap who has more mouth than manhood, wouldn’t you say?”

Garnet Kenrick was not wearing gloves. He slapped the colonel hard across the face. That man gasped in surprise, as did many members in the lobby who witnessed the incident. The Baron said, “He was a friend, sir, and more man than you could ever dream of being. One does not judge a man’s character by the number or method of his murderers — wouldn’t you say?”

The colonel sputtered an incoherent reply.

The Baron scoffed. “There’s the speech more to your character, sir.” He paused. “You know my name, Colonel Molyneux, “ he said calmly. ”Challenge
me
, if you dare.” When there was no reply, he turned and walked out of the lobby.

At Windridge Court, he met a man who was coming out just as he was climbing down from the hackney. The man looked familiar, but he could not remember where he had seen him before. The stranger glanced away guiltily, hastily wound a scarf around his neck and mouth, and hurried at a quick walk through the slush out of the courtyard to Whitehall. The Baron asked Alden Curle, who admitted him, “Who was that who just left?”

“His lordship’s secretary, milord. Mr. Hunt.”

“How long has he acted in that capacity?”

Curle looked genuinely astonished by the question. “For years, milord. He is an extension of his lordship’s will, so to speak, and has resided here for as long.”

“I see,” mused the Baron. “You may announce me.” Curle escorted him to the Earl’s study.

“I know why you are here, dear brother,” said Basil Kenrick immediately as he entered the room moments later. “And, before you begin to make regrettable insinuations and threats, I will state once and for all, that I had nothing to do with Sir Dogmael’s…end.” He sniffed once. “If I had wanted to teach him a lesson for having disgraced his House, I should have arranged it long before.”

Garnet Kenrick narrowed his eyes. “I am not inclined to believe you, Basil.”

“That is your privilege.”

“Perhaps you did not arrange it. Perhaps it was Mr. Hunt. I saw him departing as I arrived. He looks more callidish than does Mr. Curle.”

“Think what you wish of him, dear brother,” snapped the Earl, surprised to hear his son’s alias mentioned by his brother. “Mr. Hunt is a loyal and capable servant of impeccable character. As is Mr. Curle,” he added. “Your constant disapproval of my staff grows tiresome.” He paused. “Did Mr. Hunt introduce himself?”

“No, he did not. He rushed off looking as though he had just taken some of your silver. I inquired of Mr. Curle.”

“What did Mr. Curle tell you about him?”

“That he is your secretary, and, in his own words, an extension of your will.” The Baron paused, remembering his brother’s threat in this room on his last visit. “Would that extension perhaps include arranging
extraordinary
measures against Mr. Jones?”

The Earl stiffened and his eyes narrowed. “If you were not my brother, I would challenge you to a duel for that remark.” He turned his back on the Baron. “Having made it, you have overstayed your welcome.”

Garnet Kenrick did not know what to think, only what to suspect. He had no proof. Aggravating his uncertainty was his knowledge of all the challenges to Jones. A cabal could have existed, he thought. His brother doubtless would have been told about it, and perhaps exploited it somehow. He stood up. “I leave now, Basil, dismayed, I must emphasize, not relieved, by your assurances. You remain as you have always been to me, a caitiff and a menace. Good day to you.”

Watching from his study window as the Baron boarded the waiting hackney in the courtyard, Basil Kenrick managed to convince himself that his brother had no cause to despise him. He had gotten away with a lie. His brother could be so unjust and cruel in his ignorance.

Two weeks later, the Kenrick household journeyed from Chelsea back to Milgram House in Dorset for the balance of the season. Garnet Kenrick had no further business in the Commons.

* * *

In the last week of April, the
Sparrowhawk
arrived in Caxton on the York River. John Ramshaw found the town in a bustling state, and also in a state of expectation. Out of habit, for he had done it for years, he climbed the hill from River Road to Queen Anne Street and began to make his way to the
Caxton
Courier
. He found that building occupied by another establishment, a cabinetmaking shop.
René Jalbert, Proprietor
, read the signboard. Then he remembered the fate of the
Courier
. Stopping off at Safford’s King’s Arms Tavern to leave bundles of mail, he then hired a horse from the Gramatan Inn and made his way under the warm spring sun to Morland Hall. At the great house he was directed by a servant to the fields and Jack Frake, who was busy in them supervising the new plantings.

In Queen Anne County, tobacco seedlings were beginning to sprout, and planters waited for the right day to move the plants from the seedbeds to the fields. Corn was being planted, and oats, and many growers were experimenting with English common red wheat. Barley and rye were also being sown.

Ramshaw hailed his friend, who greeted him in turn and rode toward him. “It was a fair crossing, Jack, and I bring some news.” He reached into a saddlebag and waved a bundle of correspondence and London newspapers wrapped in twine. “Good news, and bad.”

“What?” Jack asked. He took the bundle from Ramshaw.

“Repeal is certain. But so is a spoiler or two.” He paused, however, to grin at Jack Frake. “You have a missive there from Mr. Kenrick’s friend here, as well. From Sir Dogmael Jones.”

Jack frowned. “What could he have to say to me?”

“It isn’t so much what he has to say to you, sir. It is what
you
said in the Commons.”

The owner of Morland Hall looked baffled. He knew that Hugh Kenrick had sent his father a copy of his pamphlet,
Reconciliation or Revolution
, and could not grasp the connection. He could not imagine the man using any portion of his pamphlet in the Commons without incurring its wrath. “We had better have some tea first, Mr. Ramshaw. Let’s go to the house.”

“Send a man to fetch Mr. Kenrick. He’ll want to be here. And I have brought his mail.”

When Hugh Kenrick arrived shortly thereafter on horseback, Jack Frake had already read Jones’s Commons speech, and the thank you note that was appended to it. He was still mildly incredulous.

When Hugh had read them, he grinned at Jack Frake. “My compliments, sir. You have beaten me to the chamber.” He turned to Ramshaw. “My God, Mr. Ramshaw! How did the House receive it?”

“I can’t say, sir. I was not present. Your father happened to catch me at Mr. Worley’s and he told me about it. I was obliged to weigh anchor and
leave London the next day, when I believe the bills were taken up to Lords. But the day after the Commons voted the resolutions for debate, bells rang all day throughout the city. All over England, I’m told. And the Pool was as mad as Bedlam.” He added with irony, “Even the customs men were in a jolly state.”

“They would be,” remarked Jack Frake. Etáin came in then. He gave her his copy of Jones’s speech. “I’ve been heard in Parliament.” It was her turn to look baffled. She sat down at the table to read.