Revolution (7 page)

Barret glared at his pastor. “I should not require a license to operate a press, sir, no more than you should require a license to shovel food into your hasty maw!”

Jack Frake turned to the minister and remarked, “Or to offer an unsolicited opinion.”

Acland, offended, turned and left the shop.

Jack turned to Hugh. “This must be protested. I will ride to Williamsburg tomorrow and demand to see the Governor.”

“My thought, too. We will go together.”

Jack Frake and Hugh Kenrick approached Barret. “Sir,” said Jack, “Hugh and I will ride to Williamsburg tomorrow and accost the Governor for an explanation of this outrage. Will you come with us?”

“Yes,” replied the printer without hesitation, “if you trust me enough not to call him out for pistols at twenty feet!”

“We trust you. I’ll lend you my sulky,” said Hugh. Then he asked, “Where are the rest of the broadsides?”

“They took those, too!” roared Barret, but he paused to chuckle. “But, I have a bundle of them stashed under my bed next door. Not many, but some.” He glanced at his two apprentices. “You there, son!” he said to Travis. “You be sure when I die, one of those is buried with me!”

Travis Barret nodded solemnly.

“And you, Cletus,” said the printer to the black boy, “you be sure to remind him!”

“Yes, sir,” answered the boy.

Jack looked around and saw Israel Beck in the back of the crowd. “Well, Mr. Beck here has some purchases to make. We’ll talk later in the day, Mr. Barret.”

Outside, Jack, Hugh, and Proudlocks rode down to the King’s Arms and went inside. When they were seated at a table, Jack asked, “Who do you think told the Governor?”

“Mr. Cullis,” answered Hugh immediately. “He was the only one of our party last May who doubted the wisdom of printing Mr. Henry’s resolves. And he opposed the last resolves, and refused to vote again for any of the ones that had already passed.” He paused. “And I believe he helped persuade some of the others to change their votes, as well.”

“Do you think he has been bought?”

“No,” answered Hugh. “I believe he is afraid.”

“Frightened men can be bought with security against that which frightens them.”

“True. We must call on Mr. Cullis.”

An hour later, after making arrangements with Wendel Barret for the journey the next morning, Jack, Hugh, and Proudlocks rode to Cullis Hall, the easternmost plantation in the county. But Hetty Cullis informed them that her husband Ralph and son Edgar had gone hunting for wolves west of the Falls. “I understand that the House has raised the bounty on the beasts, sirs. From there, they may take the waters at Warm Springs. My husband has been complaining about a painful stiffness in his limbs. They will not return for some weeks.”

Hugh thanked the woman and the trio left.

“Wolves!” scoffed Jack as they rode back to Caxton. “There are packs of them at large right here!”

“And they do not all emanate from the lair of the Palace and the Council chambers,” remarked Hugh.

“You are referring to Robinson and the Randolphs, of course?”

“Of course. The circular letter would have been addressed to the Speaker. And the Governor would have had no reason to prorogue the Assembly except to prevent delegates from being chosen to attend the congress in New York. Much House business was to be carried over to the next session, but Robinson and Randolph and the Governor would gladly have postponed it.” He paused. “I received letters recently from Mr. Henry and Mr. Washington. They plan to come to Williamsburg in October.”

Jack said, “The Governor is determined to preserve the peace in Virginia.”

Hugh shook his head. “It is the peace of a cemetery,” he said. “But they shall all learn that many of its intended occupants are not willing to be interred in that peace.”

John Proudlocks remarked, “The Governor? He is a man who wishes to be a governor.”

* * *

Lieutenant-Governor Francis Fauquier was afraid, as well. When the trio called on the Palace late the next morning, he agreed to see Hugh Kenrick, but refused admittance to his office of Jack Frake and Wendel Barret. They
waited in the visitor’s parlor near the marble-floored foyer while Hugh was escorted across the courtyard to the Lieutenant-Governor’s other office.

The interview was brief, cordial, and nearly acrid. Fauquier said, “I cannot help you in this matter, Mr. Kenrick. Mr. Barret overstepped his license, and I cannot condone the action.”

“It was a right action, on two counts,” replied Hugh. “As burgess for his county, and because he agreed with the resolves I supported, I had a right to communicate them to him, and he to his fellow…subjects. You must remember that the public space was occupied to the limit when the resolves were introduced, debated, and voted on. And the
Courier
is his livelihood, and he subsists on the revenue from subscriptions and advertisements, as well as from his other printing business. You have denied him both the right to speak and the right to practice his trade.”

“Mr. Walthoe explained your position to me, and Mr. Barret’s interpretation, as well, sir,” replied the Governor. “He was of the opinion that these arguments are irrelevant. I must concur with him.” He paused to rub his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Now, Reverend Robinson of the Council has already written to the Board of Trade and the Privy Council about the broadsides. Also, I understand from him that your own Reverend Acland has written the Board and the Bishop of London. You must appreciate that I must prove I have taken the appropriate and lawful actions, for otherwise I would be reprimanded and perhaps even removed from this office. My successor may not be as tolerant as I am, nor acquire any love for the colony and its people as I have.” He shook his head, wondering why he said such a thing. “This is a very serious matter, sir.”

“I agree, your honor,” said Hugh. “It is a very serious matter.”

“However,” sighed Fauquier, “considering that public notice revenues comprise such a goodly portion of your friend’s livelihood, I will contemplate lifting the suspension in a month’s time, and return his property. He is fortunate that I did not endorse a permanent revocation of the license. Some on the Council and in the Assembly have pressed me to take that action.”

“I have also violated the House rule, your honor, in the best spirit of Mr. John Wilkes in the Commons,” said Hugh. “What punishment is in store for me?”

Fauquier cleared his throat, and looked away. “That is for the House to decide, when it reconvenes, and if it wishes to make it an issue.” Before Hugh could raise the subject of Fauquier’s proclamation proroguing the
Assembly until March of the following year, the governor waved a hand and said, “About Mr. Chiswell. Mr. Walthoe related to me that unfortunate incident.” He picked up a string of white beads that lay on his desk. “See these? They are a present from the Little Carpenter, an envoy of the Cherokees who called on me here last month about what the Crown planned to do about the murders of his brothers in Augusta. A very interesting fellow, that Indian. Anyway, Mr. Chiswell is a colonel in the Augusta militia, and I requested that he give the Little Carpenter and his companions a safe escort back to his parts under the protection of this colony. Mr. Chiswell has only recently returned from that journey. Fatigue must account in part for his behavior in Caxton toward you. I must grant him some leniency in that respect.”

“But the larger part of his behavior, your honor, is his enmity for me. That was his third attempt to harm me.”

“So I have been informed,” said the Governor. He sighed. “I speak now as the chief justice of the General Court, sir. All I can do in the way of justice in that particular matter is assure you that he will not collect his bailiff’s fee. He was acting as a Crown officer, and, as much as I sympathize with you and condemn his action, he is indemnified against a private suit. It must be decided whether or not he acted in his capacity of bailiff, or from private vengeance. Should he behave again in that manner as a private citizen, then the full scope of the law will encompass him.”

Hugh asked, “And suppose he had injured me, or even succeeded in murdering me, your honor? Would he still have been indemnified?”

“I think not, sir, but that would be for the full General Court to decide.” Fauquier waved a hand again in front of his face, as though to clear some cobwebs that had gathered there. Then he rose to end the interview. “I am sorry I cannot be of more help to you and Mr. Barret, Mr. Kenrick. At the moment, I am striving to prevent a war between the settlers and the Six Nations along the frontiers of our own colony, and the frontiers of others as well, a war that could spread out of control. I have mountains of correspondence to read and answer on the subject. Also, there is the usual nasty business the Navy and customs men at Norfolk bring me to settle. Please forgive me for allotting so little time to your complaints.”

Hugh Kenrick rose also. “Thank you, your honor,” he said brusquely. “Just one question more, if it please you,” he added. “When Mr. Cullis informed you of Mr. Barret’s transgression, did he also alert you to the congress in New York in October?”

Fauquier frowned, but wanted to smile. What a simple trap the young man had set for him, one so easily avoided. “I would not say I was
informed
, sir, for that would asperse the patriotic character of the gentleman who came to me with the information. Nor will I confirm that it was Mr. Cullis.”

Hugh grimaced. The disappointment must have shown in his features, for the Governor blinked once in surprise. “Your honor,” said Hugh, “more and more, you are becoming a stranger to me.”

When he rejoined his friends in the Palace foyer, he shook his head at them and motioned them to the grand double doors of the entrance, and they left.

* * *

Wendel Barret expressed his gratitude to his friends.

He continued to rail against the injustice, the Governor, the Council, and John Chiswell. Two afternoons after his return from Williamsburg, he addressed his apprentices, Travis and Cletus, as he paced furiously back and forth in front of them in the quiet shop, shaking his fists in the air, his eyes coals of fire. “I cannot say when his Officiousness will deign to unshackle my
words
, young sirs!” he said, his face and manner becoming as agitated as they were the day Walthoe and Chiswell had burst into his shop to seize the type cases. “And I cannot support either or both of you without the requisite revenue! Now, you know I have a sister in Fredericksburg, and she has a thriving millinery shop there, as nice as Widow Heathcoate’s here! And her scoundrel of a husband is an ironmonger. Fashions anchors and tackle and parts for the Navy and merchants. You shall both stay with them until my press has been permitted to speak again! I have already sent my sister a request to come and collect you.”

“But, what is to become of
you
, Grandpa?” asked Travis Barret with genuine concern.

Barret paused to smile at his grandson. Then an odd look abruptly changed his features. He opened his mouth to speak, but a strange sound came from it. Then he looked surprised, and clutched the cloth over his heart. He slowly collapsed, and his other hand shot out to grasp a column of the press. Travis and Cletus rushed to him. The printer slumped against the side of the press, and made awful gagging sounds that frightened the boys. They had never before witnessed such an affliction. Travis sent Cletus to fetch the apothecary down the street.

But before that man arrived, Wendel Barret, publisher of the
Caxton Courier
, and first printer of the Stamp Act Resolves, died of a stroke.

* * *

H
e was buried two days later in the Stepney Parish Church graveyard. The funeral service was attended by half the population of Caxton. At the request of Travis Barret, copies of the
Courier
and a copy of his Stamp Act Resolves broadside were sealed in an oilskin pouch and placed on his chest in the coffin. Jack Frake and Hugh Kenrick shared the costs of the coffin, headstone, and the funeral.

Reverend Albert Acland performed the service, and delivered a sermon on the transient nature of life, managing to slip into his pious oratory a few critical asides on the wages of sin, alluding to the late printer’s often delinquent attendance of services in the church and especially to his role in broadcasting the Resolves. He felt duty-bound to mention these offenses, but did not dwell on them, for he knew that there were more friends of Mr. Barret in the congregation than there were adherents to the litany of preferred religious and public virtues.

Hugh Kenrick sat with Etáin, Thomas Reisdale, and Sheriff Cabal Tippet and his wife in a front pew. Etáin was surprised that Hugh deigned to enter the place. It was the first time she had seen him in it. She knew that he disliked both the minister and the institution as much as did her husband, Jack. Hugh confided to her that he was present out of curiosity, not because he expected to be comforted or solaced by anything Acland might say.

Jack Frake refused to enter the church; he sat on a bench outside and waited. When the service was over, John Proudlocks came out to fetch him, for he had volunteered to act as pallbearer with Hugh, Proudlocks, and William Hurry, Jack’s overlooker and steward. It was a short walk around the side of the church, down Queen Anne Street to an unnamed road, and into the graveyard that was enclosed on all sides by a fieldstone wall. At the gravesite, Acland performed the usual ritual, then looked around and said to the throng gathered around the grave and the coffin in it, “I have said enough in praise and commendation of Mr. Barret. Has anyone here kind
words for him that he wishes to speak on behalf of the deceased’s bereaved friends?’

Jack Frake looked up and around at the throng. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we have just bid farewell to a portion of our liberty, as well as to a patriot who championed it.”

A gasp shot through the crowd. Curiously, though, no one objected to the words. Almost everyone present had felt, if not thought, the same thing.

“Amen,” added Hugh Kenrick.

Several of the men in the crowd exchanged glances, then answered almost in unison, “Amen.”

Reverend Acland frowned, then sniffed in dismissal of the demonstration. He closed his prayer book and walked away, signaling the end of the funeral.

As the parishioners followed him and dispersed from the graveyard, Reece Vishonn left his wife’s side and caught up with Jack Frake to remark, “I did not know he had a condition, Mr. Frake. He seemed always moved by an impish vigor.”

“It was not happiness that killed him,” replied Jack. “It was an oppressive grief, caused by a mortal blow to his life and livelihood, delivered by the Governor.”

Vishonn scoffed. “Oh, come now, sir! That is over-sentimentality. Our dear Governor cannot be blamed for Mr. Barret’s demise!”

“Yes, he can, sir,” answered Jack with finality.

Arthur Stannard, the resident tobacco agent, had been trailing the group of men leaving the graveyard. He interjected with some heat, “Mr. Vishonn is correct, sirs!” he said to the group. “The Governor is a fellow of the most excellent character! He cannot be held accountable for every consequence of performing his duty!”

“Yes,” chimed in Henry Otway, a planter and neighbor of Hugh Kenrick, “this is true! If any blame is to be assigned, it must be to Mr. Barret himself, whom the Governor held accountable for a flagrant abuse of his Crown-sanctioned privilege!”

Jack stopped in his tracks and faced the trailing group. “Then the duty ought to be abolished, so that men of such excellent character may remain blameless and powerless to dispense or withhold such a privilege, and so author no further consequences.” He turned and walked on.

“Pish!” muttered Stannard, who said no more.

Hugh Kenrick grinned in contemptuous irony. “
That
sentiment, sir, is
one I imagine is regularly expressed in the Commons, though in so many more words.”

Stannard merely snorted in reply, but noted that Vishonn, Otway, and a few other men who had nodded in agreement with him, chuckled silently.

The funeral party broke up on a note of muted acrimony.

Later that day, after consulting with Thomas Reisdale about the status of Wendel Barret’s property — “He left his will with me,” said the attorney, “and his house and most of his effects are assigned to his sister, who is expected here shortly, but who will need to auction much of that property to pay some of his debts” — Jack and Hugh agreed to go into partnership and purchase the idle press, the two bills of Caslon type, which weighed nearly a thousand pounds and had been confiscated by the Governor, the stock of paper, and all the tools associated with the printing trade. Reisdale cautioned them to wait until Barret’s sister or brother-in-law had decided on what course of action to take. That evening, at Morland Hall, Jack and Hugh put their signatures under a letter of inquiry to Lieutenant-Governor Fauquier about Barret’s printing license.

A week later, Hugh’s valet, Spears, returned to Meum Hall from his errands in town, bearing a letter that carried the Governor’s seal, which had been left at Safford’s King’s Arms Tavern, which now replaced the
Courier
’s shop as the informal mail drop or post office for Caxton and the county.

Although the letter was addressed solely to Hugh and not to Jack, it mentioned both of them. “I have been instructed to inform you gentlemen,” wrote the Governor’s secretary in an elegant hand, “that the license to own and operate a press in this colony to which you refer, owned by the late Mr. Wendel Barret, regrettably expired with him, and may not be renewed or purchased. Furthermore, it is the opinion and conclusion of his honor the Lieutenant-Governor, without casting aspersions or doubt on the wisdom of his predecessor, that a renewal of such a license would contribute to a redundancy of purpose and intelligence in these parts.”

“
A redundancy
??” barked Hugh in anger when he read that sentence. He immediately rode to Morland Hall and showed the letter to Jack. When the latter had put it down, Hugh commented, “Well, now we know it would be futile of me to introduce a bill to permit the continuance of the
Courier
. It would likely be rejected by the Committee on Propositions.”

Jack added, “And that would save the Council and the Governor the excuse of vetoing it, even were it to survive your committee and a House vote.”

“Even were there a House to vote on it,” remarked Hugh. “I fear that the Governor has not finished proroguing the Assembly, even though it often behaves like a Roman lictor, clearing the way for his honor’s pleasure and peace of mind.”

“Why do you think so?” asked Jack. He reached for a pipe and began packing it with tobacco.

Hugh shrugged. “Because I do not believe he knows otherwise how to address the crisis, than to prohibit other men from addressing it, or at least to make it inconvenient — perhaps even unlawful — for them to assemble to discuss it.”

Jack chuckled. “He is afraid the patriots will move long before the politicians, and out-distance them through the gauntlet of revolution, to liberty.” He paused to study his friend’s incredulous expression. “It
is
a gauntlet we will face, my friend,” he added, “and the cruelest part of it will be manned, not by our obvious enemies, but by our friends.”

Hugh had stopped pacing and stood facing his friend at the desk. “Have you ever thought of standing for burgess again?”

Jack lit his pipe with a match. “Once, years ago, and was not elected. That was soon after I came into possession of Morland.” He shook his head. “I don’t mind being elected an officer of the county militia, but burgess? No, thank you.” He chuckled again. “I saw what you endured in the last Assembly. Perhaps I’m not as strong as you are in that regard. I can argue a matter up to a certain point, but no further. I haven’t the patience. No, I’ve always preferred to stay far ahead of the politician.”

Hugh sat down in a chair across from Jack. “That’s a pity, Jack. You see, I don’t believe that Mr. Cullis will be reelected, come the next call for an Assembly, whenever that may be. Rightly or wrongly, most everyone in town does not believe that the closing of the
Courier
and Mr. Cullis’s absence are coincidence. Mr. Reisdale, for instance, suspected that he contributed to the reduction of Mr. Henry’s Resolves in May, and reached that conclusion without my assistance. I merely confirmed it for him.” He wagged a finger of confidence at Jack. “
You
, however, would not need to expend money wooing votes.
You
would not need to swill the farmers and planters here with bumpo or solicit inebriated loyalty or mount the gasconade.”

Jack shook his head again. “Neither would Mr. Reisdale,” he answered. “There’s your partner in the Assembly, Hugh. He’s a respected man. I would go so far as to endorse him. But I will not offer myself as a candidate,
should you be right about Mr. Cullis’s prospects for reelection.”

Hugh sighed. “I will speak with him about it.” He grinned. “You know, it has taken me some time to accustom myself to our society’s new name. ‘The Sons of Liberty.’” A week ago, he and Jack had persuaded the Attic Society’s membership to change its name. The change was agreed upon by a margin of one vote.

Jack grinned in answer. “It is partly your own fault, Hugh. You introduced our toast, ‘Long live Lady Liberty.’ But you may share the blame with Colonel Barré.”

* * *

Thomas Reisdale’s plantation, simply named “Freehold,” lay across the Hove Stream from Meum and Morland Halls, surrounded on three sides of its irregular rectangle by a dozen smaller freeholds. The attorney-planter’s great house was a mongrel composite of additions and alterations built over the course of more than a century. Most of its fertile fields were once swamp land, patiently but ruthlessly drained and reclaimed by Reisdale’s father and grandfather. Freehold owed its steady prosperity to its rich soil and the efforts of a capable overlooker and business agent retained by Reisdale after he inherited the place. The scholarly attorney kept a critical eye on the management of the plantation, and made some suggestions to his managers on minor matters, but otherwise did not interfere in the running of the place. This policy allowed him to pursue a law practice, sit on the county court as its chief and oldest justice during county court days — which were usually held every three months but especially a week before the General Court convened in Williamsburg and before the opening of a General Assembly — and ensconce himself in his well-stocked, disorderly library and bury himself in his books in search of clarity, justice, and truth.

He was a shy man in social occasions. He had never married, and never bothered to apply his energies to the daunting and ticklish project of finding himself a wife. He addressed a statute with more confidence than he could a widow or any available lady. As a youth, he had studied law at Gray’s Inn in London, and had permitted himself some dalliances then, but now, at the age of fifty-one, those days and that particular confidence were fading memories. He was more likely to recall an obscure lecture from those years than he was the name or face of any woman he might have squired in that metropolis’s pleasure gardens. Occasionally he felt a loneliness, and in a dry,
wistful manner contemplated the advantages of a companion. But this malady’s corrective was a distracted search for a certain turn of phrase or point of legal reasoning in an ancient tome.

It was raining the day Hugh Kenrick called on him. He welcomed the interruption and the respite from his present labors. He was struggling to compose an address for the next meeting of the Sons of Liberty in two weeks, an address he planned to develop into an “inquiry” as a pamphlet he hoped he could find a printer for. He was attempting to establish a solid argument that the Stamp Act was legally and morally unconstitutional, and that colonial courts could, without risk of censure, and in conformity with colonial charters, sit within the bounds of the Constitution without employing or requiring stamps in any action or document presented to those courts for adjudication, and retain the legal force of those actions and documents.

At the moment, his address was a confused, unruly
mélange
of ideas and theories. Since the stamps were in fact and in effect a new duty or tax, and an internal one at that, he felt comfortable in resorting to the Parliamentary Petition of Right from Charles the First’s time, for although Parliament had authored the act, the act remained a nullity until endorsed by the king as executive. One of the points of the Petition of Right was that the king could impose no loans or taxes without Parliamentary leave or consent.

George the Third had indeed endorsed the Stamp Act, authored by Parliament in violation of most colonial charters that stipulated that no taxes, imposts, or levies could be introduced in the internal affairs of the colonies. George the Third was ostensibly the guardian of those charters, but instead of exercising his veto on a patently unconstitutional law, had endorsed the Act, and in so doing abdicated his constitutional role as a check against Parliamentary caprice and avarice. Reisdale did not accuse His Majesty of indifference, neglect, or wickedness — God forbid — but insinuated in his argument that His Majesty was the victim of evil counsel. The king had joined in unfortunate accord with Parliament, and consequently made a mockery of his oft-expressed desire to be a “patriot king” and his concern for
summum bonum,
or the supreme good, which was the preservation of the liberty and happiness of his subjects, wherever they might reside.

This end, stressed Reisdale on paper, was demonstrably not served by the Stamp Act.