Revolution (5 page)

Jones had persuaded Garnet Kenrick to pay most of the student’s fine to keep him out of debtor’s prison — the youth’s tobacconist-shop parents being in no position to pay it themselves — and frequently employed the youth as secretary and amanuensis. And, because the youth had a penchant for law, Jones was making progress in convincing him to emigrate to the colonies, where he could practice it beyond the court’s jurisdiction.

When he could budget the time, Jones attended the intellectual
soirées
of Elizabeth Montagu and Mrs. Macaulay. He found these tea table discussions less stimulating than the time he spent thinking and writing in the Purgatory, Mitre, and Turk’s Head Taverns. In these busy, smoky environments he had composed most of his anonymously written pamphlets on a variety of subjects, mostly political.

One, entitled “The True Colonial Monarch,” caused a minor sensation among those who worried about the effects of the Stamp Act. In it Jones attacked the Act, and posed the paradox: “By the Revolution of ’89 and the Act of Settlement, Parliament wrested monarchial power from the monarch. If the colonists appeal to His Majesty for protection, for their rights and liberties are guaranteed by his hand in their various charters, is it not implied that they wish His Majesty to reassert and reclaim powers ceded to Parliament? Would they not then be asking him to become again a true sovereign, and not an executive? To subvert the Constitution? To rule them, and in time, us, with the same unmindful recklessness with which Parliament now presumes to rule? If we cannot entrust either the king or Parliament with the shield of liberty, then what might be the solution…?”

Tonight, Jones turned to another chore, that of writing to Garnet Kenrick and his son Hugh, informing them of the change in ministry and the events leading up to it.

He wrote: “…I am suspicious of Mr. Pitt’s devotion to our liberty and that of the colonies. Without casting aspersions on his character, I can only wonder, were he not so distracted by afflictions of the mind and foot, would he not be a worse taskmaster than Mr. Grenville, a greater enemy of the colonists than a friend? You must recall that some time ago, when he was in better health (I believe at the outset of the late war), he stated in the House that he was opposed to encouraging the colonies to manufacture necessities and luxuries for themselves and the mother country, and would sooner blast their every factory and furnace than cause misery and starvation in England.…”

He also discussed the nascent efforts of British merchants and employers to petition the Board of Trade and Parliament to repeal or relax the Stamp Act, for they were anxious that the Act would depress an already reduced trade with the colonies.

Jones brought back with him from Danvers copies of several colonial newspapers forwarded to the Baron by Otis Talbot, the family’s agent in Philadelphia. In one of them, the
New York Journal
, was a reprint of Paoli’s “Corsican Manifesto,” in which the rebels pledged themselves to die “rather than submit ourselves and posterity to the insupportable yoke of Genoese tyranny and slavery.” The “Manifesto” was accompanied by remarks by the paper’s publisher, who praised the Corsicans as models of virtue for mankind: “Not as you are, but what you ought to be.”

Jones was touched by that sentiment. He carefully underlined it, clipped the item from the paper, and pinned it to the wall over his desk. It both consoled him, and warned him, for while he was endeavoring to be “what he ought to be,” he felt alienated from most men with whom he allied himself in championing liberty, and knew that they were flailing approximations of what they ought to be, unable or unwilling to capture the greater vista of things. He glanced up at the clipping now, then concluded his report on the merchants. “Depend on
them
to sunder their principles from their purses.”

Under the steady, constant light of the pump lamps, Jones wrote on, not permitting himself to think of a person many leagues away, of Alice Kenrick, his patron’s daughter, who was now seventeen, and with whom he was in love. His discipline faltered, but then he remembered something
only after he had finished the letters and put them aside for the law student to copy into his letter book. In a brief postscript to each of them, he reported the adventure of the second messenger.

* * *

It was “Mr. Hunt” — Jared Turley, Basil Kenrick’s reclaimed bastard son, now in his father’s service — who, at his father’s request, laboriously penned the false invitation, sealed it with the wax lifted from the Earl’s own invitation to the Bedford levee, then donned a footman’s livery and delivered it to Jones’s chambers.

When he returned to Windridge Court, Turley first stopped in the kitchen to fortify himself with a dram of whisky before reporting to the Earl in his study. He took the wig from his coat pocket and tossed it contemptuously on the servants’ table; he hated wearing the things, and hated having to don the livery, for he considered a menial’s job beneath him. He longed to change back into his own fine clothes. But he gathered his courage and marched upstairs.

Turley presented himself in an almost military manner, hat removed and tucked under his arm, and stood stiffly at attention, more from fear than from respect. “I regret to report that the…ruse…was not a success, sir,” he said in a dry voice. He produced the spurned invitation from inside his coat and laid it on the Earl’s desk. “The gentleman declined the hospitality.”

One eyebrow of the Earl’s rose in question. “I am sure he declined in so many words, Mr. Hunt. What were they?”

“Rude and cryptic, sir.” Turley repeated from memory Jones’s precise words, omitting his error in address.

“I see. He did not question the authenticity of the invitation?”

“No, sir.”

With a grimace, the Earl took the invitation and methodically tore it to pieces. “Based on your own reports of his arrogant and heated temperament, I was certain the fellow would be foolishly bold enough to accept. Or at least be curious enough to attend.” He tossed the pieces over his shoulder, then thoughtfully drummed the fingers of his hands on the velvet blotter. “Had he accepted, and appeared at the levee, he would have acquired more enemies than he now has — among his own party. And his grace the Duke would have been stung by his rudeness — good word, Mr.
Hunt — and indeed entertained the company with Sir Dogmael’s abrupt and deservedly vulgar ejection from the premises on the belief that he was spying on his grace with a forged invitation. He would have been as welcome there as one of the mob of silk-weavers who recently besieged his grace’s residence, but were bloodied and trampled by the Guards and Lord Ancram’s cavalry. Well, you were there with me, Mr. Hunt.”

Turley winced at the Earl’s use of the proper address, but disguised it with a nod of agreement. “Yes, sir, and had the privilege of tossing a few stones at the scoundrels before they were dispersed by the authorities.” He paused. “I am afraid, though, that it will take more than stones to disperse Sir Dogmael. His patron is your brother, the good Baron.”

The Earl sighed in disappointment. “Well, there will be other occasions. “ He opened a desk drawer, removed five guineas from a box, closed the drawer, and put the coins on the blotter in front of him. “It is not your fault that the jest failed, Mr. Hunt. It was to have been a birthday gift to Sir Henoch, who celebrates his debut in the world tomorrow, and who will accompany me to the levee. He would enjoy the spectacle, and, had we succeeded, Sir Dogmael’s humiliation would have been repayment of some kind for that caricature of Sir Henoch he broadcast. Now, I must settle for some common bauble to present him.” He paused. “I promised you a bonus to carry it out, Mr. Hunt. The jest was only half successful, so you have earned only half the bonus.” The Earl looked away with disdain, and waited.

“Thank you, sir, “ said Turley softly. He took a step closer, picked up the golden coins as quietly as he could, and quickly pocketed them. He stepped back to await dismissal.

The Earl ended the audience with instructions to his son that he begin packing his things for the journey to Danvers, where they would spend the balance of the summer until the fall, when Parliament would prepare to reconvene.

* * *

E
dgar Cullis carefully brushed the dust from his attire, braced himself, and strode resolutely past the open gates of the Governor’s Palace in Williamsburg. He was not happy about coming here, but he was determined to complete his mission as quickly and coldly as possible.

It was a sultry, humid afternoon in late July. The ride from Caxton yesterday morning had been a miserable journey aggravated by the swirling dust from roads that had not been dampened by rain in over a month, and by the cicadas, wood beetles, and other noisy insects that clicked and hummed incessantly from the trees above. The combination of the heat, dust, and insects was mentally suffocating. His head still throbbed.

And although he did not dwell on this aspect of his purpose here, it was made more distasteful by the suspicion that he had been approached and requested to perform this task for a reason he did not allow to congeal into a certainty. He tried not to imagine the faces of the persons who summoned him to Williamsburg and explained the mission to him, nor the reward promised him should he accept the task. He tried not to remember the promises he had made to the men who reelected him this month as burgess for the county. And he refused to think of Hugh Kenrick, who had also been reelected.

Inside, beneath the great wheel of weapons on the ceiling in the grand foyer of the Palace, he was intercepted by the housekeeper and asked his business. Rather abruptly and officiously, he replied that he wished an interview with the Governor concerning urgent Assembly matters. With meek, patronizing authority the housekeeper asked him to wait in the well-appointed room to his right. He entered the room but did not sit down. A colored paper fan had been placed on a side table for the benefit of guests and visitors. Cullis swept it up and impatiently waved the fan to cool his face in the moist warm air as he paced back and forth. To his side he clutched a leather portfolio. In it was the reason he was here.

Half an hour later he was escorted by a footman back outside the Palace to the Governor’s other office, in an eastern wing building within the Palace walls. He was asked to wait in a larger, more sumptuously decorated room. Another half-hour passed, and then a secretary appeared to
show him upstairs to the Governor’s office. Francis Fauquier received him graciously, and offered him some refreshment from a decanter of punch. Not so much thirsty as desperate to wet his throat in order to speak with the boldness he knew was required, he accepted. When Fauquier had finished the courtesy, he sat down behind his desk and exchanged some pleasantries and complaints with his visitor, using a fan to cool his brow. At one point he asked briskly, as though remembering that his time was valuable, “Well, Mr. Cullis! To what do I owe this call?”

Cullis assumed an air of relaxation, sat back in his chair, and crossed his legs. Over one knee he balanced the portfolio. He spoke now with some confidence. “No doubt, your honor, you are aware of the ferment and commotion caused by the resolutions passed in the Assembly this late spring.”

The Lieutenant-Governor chuckled morosely. “Oh, how could I not be?” he exclaimed. “Why, I receive correspondence about it every other day, it seems, from the three points, and even from the west.” He shook his head. “Poor Governor Bernard in Boston is most to be pitied. That is where much of the commotion occurs, you see. And I fear it will grow worse.” He turned in his regal chair to glance out the open window, and nodded to the town beyond. “The people are not well here, either. They are unhappy, uneasy, and a madness grips them.” He grinned in self-effacement. “I am unhappy, uneasy, but not mad.”

“Yes, your honor,” replied Cullis. “I fear that more serious commotion is in the making.”

“How so, sir?”

Cullis cleared his throat. “I represent a group of burgesses who are mindful of the mood of His Majesty’s subjects here, and who have observed the commotions and madness of those in other of his colonies.” He pursed his lips and sped on. “Some weeks ago the House received a missive which we construe is a measure of the imminent peril of anarchy and lawlessness. The group I represent are properly concerned and dismayed, and wish only to apprise you and the Crown of our thoughts.” He paused. “I have here a document to show you, your honor, one which I believe you will find equally dismaying.” He opened the portfolio and took out a one-page letter. “If you would be kind enough to read it, your honor, I hope you will understand why I presume to encroach upon your time.” Cullis rose and handed the Lieutenant-Governor the paper over the desk, then resumed his seat.

Fauquier stuck out his lower lip and read the letter. It was dated June 8th, and was an invitation from the Massachusetts Assembly to the twelve
other colonial assemblies to select delegates to a congress in New York “to consider of a general and united, dutiful, loyal, and humble representation of their condition to His Majesty and Parliament; and to implore relief.”

When he was finished, Fauquier put the letter down on his paper-strewn desk. “Disturbing mischief, indeed, sir. I had heard some rumor of such a congress, but was not certain it could be true. This document proves it.” He paused to finish his punch. “Well, presumably your group of disinterested burgesses have some recommendations or advice for me.” He smiled expectantly with patient benevolence at his visitor.

Cullis smiled in apology. “Forgive us
our
presuming to advise you, your honor, but you are correct that we do. News of the congress has already spread throughout the colony here. Most certainly the call for such a congress was precipitated in no little way by the illegal broadcasting of the Assembly’s resolves shortly after they were passed, and also by the agitations of similarly reckless persons in Massachusetts and New York. A great deal of pamphleteering is being indulged in now by wags in most of the colonies, much of it calling the Act unconstitutional, or a breach of royal charters, or a design to enslave the colonies and make them absolutely dependent on the Crown.” The burgess for Queen Anne County made a face and sighed. “I have read some of this seditious literature, out of duty, of course, and my head grows dizzy with the menagerie of arguments that now circulate among His Majesty’s subjects here, like the distemper that has plagued our livestock.”

“I have heard some of them myself, sir,” remarked the Lieutenant-Governor, “and even debated them with some of your colleagues in private. And I agree with you, that they can dull one’s clarity.”

“Now, your honor, come the next Assembly here in November, the members of our House will doubtless demand to make the choosing of delegates to this congress their first order of business, in or out of session, within or without the Capitol, with or without your approval or that of the Council, or even of the Speaker.”

Fauquier looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “But, good sir, the gentlemen in this letter call for a congress in October, weeks before an Assembly here could convene.”

Cullis added with irony, hoping he did not give the impression that he was contradicting the Lieutenant-Governor, “I would not be surprised, your honor, if many of them arrived far ahead of time to convene a private assembly of their own. Their elections would be doubtless assured, and
they would act with the confidence that they were entitled to act for the Assembly.” He paused. “I am told that many members of the Assembly, who have been alerted to the congress in their own private correspondence with other colonies, plan to do exactly that, your honor.”

“I see,” said Fauquier. After a moment, he asked, “What
is
your recommendation, sir?”

Cullis cocked his head in feigned innocence. “I do not presume to recommend anything myself, your honor, although my group wish to take the liberty of pointing out that the House could not choose delegates if an Assembly…had not been called.” Although the worst of his mission was over — now that the words had been spoken — he could not control the gulp that caused him to pause. He added, “We fear that, if given the opportunity, the House would select delegates who were most responsible for the resolves, and who could attend the congress in New York and perhaps return here in time to attend the Assembly, as well, and very likely introduce more mischief.”

Fauquier hummed in thought. “Yes, yes…I see what you mean. That Henry fellow, the one who made so much fuss, I could see him going to this congress and calling for my head!” He chuckled. “No, no, that wouldn’t do at all!”

Cullis said, “Of course, your honor, it is for you to decide whether or not to prorogue the new session. But, as I am sure the Attorney-General himself would advise you, an official delegation of gentlemen from this colony to the congress could not be named and dispatched by a non-existent Assembly. We have consulted the law, and judge that any burgess who appointed himself, or was appointed a delegate by an ad hoc committee of burgesses acting outside the Assembly, but still representing himself as a delegate of the Assembly, would naturally run afoul of the law, and could be removed from his office, or expelled, or penalized in some manner.” Cullis paused again. “It is a delicate and disagreeable conundrum, your honor, one which we are sure would have undoubtedly occurred to you, as well, without our presumptuous advice.”

“Please, Mr. Cullis,” grimaced the Lieutenant-Governor, with a wave of his hand, “I am not as wise as you wish me to be.” He reached for the decanter and poured himself another glass of punch, then gestured to his visitor’s empty glass. Cullis shook his head. The Lieutenant-Governor sipped the beverage, then said, “A moment ago you referred to the ‘illegal’ broadcasting of the House’s resolutions, Mr. Cullis. I do not understand
that disapprobation. They were bound to be made public in some manner.”

“It was their manner of promulgation that my group object to, your honor, and believe violates the House’s privilege,” replied Cullis, who was embarking on the most delicate part of his mission. “May I point out that the populaces of other colonies are under the false impression that all seven of Mr. Henry’s resolves were adopted by the Assembly, when in truth only four were. Mr. Henry doubtlessly conspired to have all seven printed on a broadside, and, without care for fact or House privilege, advertised them as official actions of the Assembly. Other newspapers have reprinted the four, in addition to the ones that were not adopted.”

Fauquier shrugged. “It was not Mr. Royle of the
Gazette
who printed the falsity, sir. I have it from him that he would have first broken his press before he would print a single word of those resolves.”

Cullis smiled. “A very patriotic man, Mr. Royle,” he remarked. “But, it was Mr. Wendel Barret, proprietor of the
Caxton Courier
, who printed large numbers of sheets containing the seven resolves. He obtained a license to publish his paper and operate a press by special leave of Governor Dinwiddie, your predecessor. By that license, he is permitted to reprint news and intelligence from other papers, in addition to advertisements and announcements of a local character, but never news of a general nature that has not first been reported elsewhere. That stipulation is made clear in the license, a copy of which must be in your files. Further, other than printing account books, blank legal documents, and the like for sale, he is forbidden to print instruments of any…political nature.”

“I see. Well, I did not know that.” The Lieutenant-Governor’s eyes were round with shock.

“In fact, your honor, by printing the resolves, in addition to overstepping the strictures of his license, he further violated the privilege of the House and Council of the privacy of their deliberations and resolutions.” Cullis paused. “Mr. Barret’s guilt in this matter can be proven by a simple comparison of a number of the
Courier
and one of the illegal broadsides. I am certain that Mr. Royle, upon consultation, could point out the recurring styles, anomalies, and consistencies in them.” He looked into the space above the Lieutenant-Governor’s head. “A royal governor granted him the license by his leave and privilege, your honor, and one may revoke it, as well.”

Fauquier’s brow wrinkled in annoyance. “I am conscious of my prerogatives, sir,” he replied in mild rebuke. He noted the red flush of embarrassment
in his visitor’s face. What a knowledgeable man, he thought. He did not wonder now why none of his three closest friends in the House had approached him with this information and advice. Young Mr. Cullis could accomplish this task without incriminating any of them. The Lieutenant-Governor’s mouth flattened in transient disgust with this political business. “Well, Mr. Cullis, I thank you for your visit. I will give your group’s thoughts some consideration.” He rose and picked up the circular letter. “With your permission, I would like to have copies of this made so that I may forward them to the Board in London. You may wait downstairs. The task should not take long.”

Edgar Cullis rose, stepped back once, and inclined his head. “Thank you, your honor, for the opportunity to render some service to the Crown and colony.”

Cullis left the Palace, gave the footman at the gate a penny for having watched his mount, and rode up the Green to Duke of Gloucester Street. Some minutes later he dismounted again outside the Edinburgh Coffeehouse near the Capitol. Peyton Randolph and George Wythe, also recently reelected burgesses, sat at a table in the rear of the near-empty establishment. Without greeting, he sat down at the table, took out the circular letter, and laid it on the table. “It is done, sirs. He had copies made of it.”

Randolph asked, “Will he prorogue the fall Assembly, Mr. Cullis?”

Cullis grimaced. “He did not say, Mr. Randolph. He was very much disturbed by the letter and my arguments.” He paused. “I adhered to your instructions, sir, and pointed out to him the advantage of not calling an Assembly. He seemed to agree, but did not actually say so.”

“I see,” said Randolph. “Well, we must simply wait on his decision.” He reached for the letter and put it into his own portfolio. “What did he say about Mr. Barret and the broadsides?”