Authors: Edward Cline
* * *
“See?” said Reece Vishonn when he was certain they were out of earshot along
the main road that led from the house. “I told you that the chap was no recusant.
Not a bit of one.”
“He’s a fly fellow, though,” said Ralph Cullis, “
and
threapish, as
well. I’d wager he could talk Reverend Acland down from his pulpit and convince
him to write love notes to Monsieur Voltaire!”
Ira Granby chuckled as they rode past a harvested tobacco field. “Keeping this
place up will mellow his views,” he said. “In a few years, he may even begin
to sound like you, sir,” he added, glancing at Vishonn.
“Perhaps,” said the senior planter. “You are likely right. His views and ardor
need topping, just as our tobacco does. They
will
be topped, I am sure
of it. Don’t you doubt it, either, gentlemen. He’ll advertise soon enough for
anew overseer, or come to us requesting a loan of one of ours.”
Cullis said, after a pensive hum, “
I
say that he remains worrisome
— and disturbing. If he put his mind and ardor to it, he could rile the other
planters and growers here. Even the townsfolk.”
Vishonn turned in his saddle with a perplexed frown. “On
what
occasion,
sir?” he asked. “Over
what
matter?”
“A political occasion,” answered Cullis. “I believe there is some truth in what
he and Mr. Frake have said recently. When the war is over, I believe we will
witness more politicking here than any man would wish to endure.” He paused.
“I don’t know over what matters…but I fear it all the same.”
Thomas Reisdale, who rode alongside Arthur Stannard in the rear, said, “Disturbance
is not always a thing to be feared or avoided, sirs. It has the bracing effect
of reminding one that what one takes for granted, such as our liberties, may
be taken away, as surely as water sinks into sand.” Vishonn laughed. “Is that
another of your Gallic sweetmeats, Mr. Reisdale?”
“No, sir,” said the attorney. “It is a morsel of English wisdom. Or Virginian,
if you prefer, and I am its author.”
“I quite appreciated Mr. Kenrick’s simile of the epergne,” remarked Stannard.
“So much so, that I intend to write my firm in London about it. There are men
in the Commons who may be able to employ it to good effect — should the occasion
ever arise. Though I am less certain than is Mr. Cullis that it ever will.”
“Strictly speaking, Mr. Stannard,” Reisdale said, “it was an analogy that our
host demonstrated. And an excellent one, too. Your men in the Commons may be
able to put it over all the gentlemen there — should the occasion call for it.”
“‘Put it over,’ sir?” queried Stannard, a little offended. “Why, you are ascribing
what sounds like dishonest oratory to a man you have not even heard speak.”
“Sharp persuasion it may be, sir — depending on the intent of the speaker and
the honesty of the gentlemen of the Commons. The analogy, you see, is not perfect,
either. I don’t much like the idea of being plucked like a confection from a
bowl by the Crown, though many in the Commons may find that idea both attractive
and expedient.” His four companions turned to look at Reisdale. “Beware, sirs!”
he added with a smile. “Castor and Pollux are among us now! Or, if you prefer,
Cato and Cicero!”
Reece Vishonn sighed and turned to face the front. He exclaimed, “God spare
us the company of scholars and lawyers!”
A
fter the first breathless astonishment of discovering all that one has in
common with another, comes the mutual, happy knowledge that the commonalities
overshadow the multitude of differences, and that the former render the latter
irrelevant, for they have a deeper, more vigorous foundation for friendship
than have happenstance, coincidence, or accident. Such a friendship becomes
an inviolate continuum. When it is born, the world seems a saner, cleaner, and
more welcoming place. The wearisome, aching partner of loneliness is instantly
abandoned and forgotten. Virtues, aspirations, and experiences mesh hungrily
and effortlessly for the discoverers, and become the fast norms by which all
other friendships are judged. Other men, together with their society and concerns,
become intrusive, almost amusing annoyances, to be endured with a civility that
defines their beginning and end. Warming affection and genuine graciousness
are reserved for those who mirror one’s soul.
To be reciprocated in this manner is a rare, priceless reward for all the tests
and pains of isolation one has known in the past. Distant, elusive
oughts
abruptly become palpable
is’s
. One then feels a right to laugh in recollection
of those who dream without contributing any personal substance to their professed
visions — provided one remembers to think of them.
* * *
Hugh Kenrick and Jack Frake stood in the yard in front of the house and watched
the planters amble on horseback down the main road. The winter sun was beginning
its rapid descent in the west, and chilling breezes from the north swept off
the York River and whipped around the corners of the outbuildings.
Jack glanced at Hugh. “They must be relieved, now that they know that you don’t
plan to put Caxton to the torch, Mr. Kenrick,” he remarked. “They half expect
me to.”
Hugh sighed. “They are comfortable in their dependency. Complacency has dulled
their sensibilities, as much as would a monteith of rum.”
“I am afraid that the peril must first come beating down their doors, before
they can believe it exists, and grasp that they won’t be exempt from its depredations.”
Jack paused in thought. “Until they do believe it, they won’t be whole men —
and we will be the town’s moonrakers.”
Hugh smiled again, and folded his arms against the chill. “Moonrakers! Are we
the cause of their uneasiness, Mr. Frake? Or is it the Crown?”
“Both, I imagine,” Jack said. “We are, because we are not in awe of the Crown.
The Crown is, because we remind them that it does not stand in awe of their
liberties.”
“If we are to ever have an enduring empire, it must be founded on a polity that
does.”
“Not the Crown?”
Hugh shook his head. “Not the
Crown
itself.” He paused. “It is time that
men advanced beyond kings and crowns and ancient privileges.”
This time Jack smiled. “I am certain that your ideal empire is not feasible,
Mr. Kenrick. I mind very much the notion of my being some placeman’s handy confection.
If Parliament could ever be persuaded of the value and wisdom of your arrangement,
it would be only because its members and their constituencies saw in it a means
to satisfy their appetites for colonial sweetmeats. To heed reason, these men
must see something in it to gain for themselves — at our expense. Then, of course,
it would not be reason they heeded, but a…circumspect, dissembling expediency.”
Jack shook his head. “If there is little prospect of political gain, they will
never sanction your empire of reason.”
Hugh grinned in appreciation. “A ‘circumspect, dissembling expediency,’” he
repeated. “An excellent way of naming what may well be the best of their good
intentions. Why, it is the companion of our neighbors’ stubborn disbelief —
a circumspect, dissembling delusion!” He shrugged lightly. “Then the solution
is to somehow wrest the power from the placemen and Parliament and boards and
councils to pluck us from the epergne of empire, and to find a means to deny
it to them and their ilk for all time. It is an engineering task, one that has
maddened many a fine mind.” He smiled again, and bowed slightly to Jack. “You
may very likely be the one to make that enraging speech, Mr. Frake.”
“Or you,” Jack said.
Hugh gestured to the house. “Will you stay to supper? We have much to talk about,
aside from our parliamentary division.”
“I was about to ask you to supper.” “You’re here, and I insist.”
* * *
“Wonder,” noted a contemporary of Samuel Johnson, “is involuntary praise.”
Supper passed, and then midnight. Astonishment erased all sense of time in the
two young men, and astonishment itself gave way to wonder. Each man wished to
understand why the other was so much like himself. Their conversation over tea,
supper, and spirits, a conversation composed of a constant exchange of episodes,
incidents, and adventures, silently wove the fabric of a bond for which friendship
was merely the hem, and their politics the seam. They were able to speak of
themselves without boasting, without vanity, without the necessity or compulsion
to surpass each other in courage, accomplishment, or supremacy.
“I defied a press gang….”
“I defied a mob at Charing Cross….”
“I joined a smuggling gang….”
“I was admitted into the company of freethinkers….”
“I lost my friends to the Crown and corrupted law….”
“I lost my friends to the same pair….”
“I watched my friend’s book burn at the gallows….”
“My uncle burned my books, or tossed them into the Thames….” “I helped my two
best friends die on the gallows, to end their agony….” “I watched my friends
perish at sea, and another die on the pillory….” “I remember seeing fireworks
in London, and wishing I could stay there for the balance of my life….”
“I remember the fireworks at the celebration of the last peace, and thinking
that I belonged in London, that metropolis of possibilities….” “Skelly’s last
words to me were ‘This Briton will never be a slave’….” “I neglected to bow
to the Duke of Cumberland, and would not apologize….”
“Your words may have condemned your friends at the King’s Bench….”
“But
you
copied out
Hyperborea
, and I envy you that crime….” Each
man privately appreciated, in mounting stages, that the other had lived just
as unique and glorious a life as had he himself. Each understood that the glory
was a consequence, not a cause or a quest. But neither did they abjure this
species of pride in their self-estimations, nor deny its presence in each other.
Their divergent politics, within the span of a few hours, ebbed in importance
to the role of a half-remembered pretext, smothered by tales of tragedy and
heroism. Each was certain that the other’s politics was not the product of serendipitous
book-learning or of a vacuous, illiterate meanness, but the expression of some
unconquered element in his character. The words spoken by each of them were
glittering, tantalizing clues to what moved them, and these words, each man
dimly sensed, were faint overtures to the words each of them had vowed to find
some day: Jack, in dedication to the memory of two hanged outlaws; Hugh, in
dedication to the memory of a dying man who had ordered him to live.
“I remember Ranelagh Gardens, and the bookshops, and the Pool of London,” sighed
Hugh at one point, as he gazed wistfully in the flames of
the library fireplace.
“I remember Ranelagh, too,” Jack said, “and St. Paul’s, and the theater Redmagne
and I went to, and the incredible energy of the city.” He paused.
“And Westminster Bridge, a white gash of stone arcing from bank to bank. It
was the first thing I noticed.”
Hugh smiled. “My father wrote me that a new bridge is to be thrown across the
Thames, at Blackfriars. Our quarry may win a contract to provide some of the
stone.”
Jack frowned. “I’ll never cross it or Westminster. If I ever returned to England,
I would risk sharing the fate of my friends.”
Hugh nodded. “And if I returned, I do believe that my uncle would try to have
me assassinated. I must wait until he is…gone.”
Jack rose from his chair to study a framed picture on one of the walls.
It was Hugh’s sketch of the members of the Society of the Pippin. “So,” he remarked,
“that was Glorious Swain?”
“Yes,” Hugh said. “My elder brother — in spirit and mind, at least.” Jack glanced
at his host. “I thought that of Redmagne, too.” He shook his head in amazement.
“Both of them, unexpected discoveries. You rescued yours, and mine rescued me.
We have so many things in common — sorrows, triumphs, places, our kinds of friends….”
He laughed, and added, “And Captain Ramshaw and the
Sparrowhawk
. I came
here on it as a felon, you as an exile.”
Hugh studied his guest for a moment. “As an exile,” he mused. “How true.” He
paused. “And, we seem to have common enemies. It was Henoch Pannell who captured
you, and ensured that your friends were executed in Falmouth, was it not?”
“Yes,” Jack said with new interest. “What of him?”
“He is now a member for Canovan. I have sparred with him, too. All in all, an
unwholesome man. He is no friend of the colonies.” “I wouldn’t think he would
be.” Jack frowned and sat down again.
“Canovan? That was Skelly’s old London borough.” He shook his head.
“So, he’s looted that, too. Well, Parliament is the right place for him.” Hugh
picked up a silver coffee pot and gestured with it. Jack shook his head. Hugh
poured himself another cup. “He is plumb, plump, and wily, thanks to an opportune
marriage, good eating, and consorting with his ilk in the Commons. My uncle
has drawn him into an alliance with Crispin Hillier, our own member, for the
express purpose of controlling votes for keeping the colonies dependent, in
addition to whatever other villainy the
Commons wishes to visit on England. If any man is capable of persuading Parliament
to team the colonies in a common yoke, it is he. Sir Henoch is an effective
speaker.” Then Hugh laughed. “No, no! Forgive me for overestimating him! I am
certain there are better speakers than he for the job.” Jack packed another
pipe and lit it. “Tell me how you came to encounter him.”
Hugh told him about the Bucklad House concert, his exchange with the M.P. outside
St. Stephens, and the supper with his uncle.
Hours later, they talked about
Hyperborea
. Hugh held one of the two duodecimo
volumes of the novel, and asked, “Was Romney Marsh, or Redmagne, anything like
his hero, Drury Trantham?”
Jack looked pleasantly puzzled. “You know.… That question never before occurred
to me. But, yes, he was much like his hero. Like him in many ways. Or rather,
Trantham was much like Redmagne, but projected onto a more ideal and lively
and fast-moving canvas.”
“Yes,” remarked Hugh. “But Redmagne’s own canvas is no less heroic or elevating
than Drury Trantham’s.” He paused and stared into the darkness of one of the
room’s corners. Their exchange had triggered the sudden memory of a moment he
had experienced in Ranelagh Gardens, when he saw his own life as a series of
canvases, lit by the light of innumerable fireworks. He looked noble, solemn,
and joyous at the same time. Jack, surprised by his host’s abrupt silence, studied
the face of his new friend, and saw these things. He thought: Your company is
invigorating, Mr. Kenrick. You have caused me to remember painful, urgent, pressing
things. But, somehow, your company lessens the sting of those memories. You
are, somehow, a justification for all that I am and have done, apart from everything
I am and have done.
They both heard a noise at the library door and turned to see it open.
A figure in a nightgown, carrying a candle, took a hesitant step inside. It
was Spears, Hugh’s valet. Hugh asked, “What is it, Spears? What are you doing
up at this hour? Is something amiss?”
Spears frowned. “Pardon me, sir,” he said, nodding to the window, “but it is
your rising time.”
Jack and Hugh glanced out the window, and noticed the gray-black of the predawn
light beyond it. Throughout the night, they had heard the ticking and chimes
of the floor clock, but paid them no more attention than they had the crickets
and tree frogs.
Jack Frake stayed long enough for breakfast, then mounted his horse for the
ride back to Morland. In one of his saddlebags was a leather portfolio that
contained many of his host’s essays and Pippin addresses, in addition to what
few addresses Hugh was able to salvage from Glorious Swain’s garret in London
years ago.
“Good day, to you, Mr. Kenrick,” said Jack, touching the edge of his hat. “Be
seeing you, Mr. Frake,” Hugh said.
They did not bid each other goodbye. Jack Frake rode home at a trot, while Hugh
Kenrick went back inside the great house and climbed the steps to his bedchamber,
stopping only to instruct Spears to wake him in three hours.