Authors: Edward Cline
In London, the Treaty was the subject of provocative commentary in
private conversation and in political publications, most notably
The North
Briton
, founded in June of 1762 and entirely subsidized by an Opposition
lord who, like the majority of London and Liverpool merchants, was angry
with the surrender by Lord Bute’s negotiators of Guadeloupe and other
British conquests.
The North Briton
was begun as an answer to Tobias
Smollet’s
The Briton
, a weekly paper whose aim was to justify and explain
Bute’s policies. The scathing, immoderate attacks of
The North Briton
contributed to Bute’s eventual downfall. Its principal editor and contributor,
John Wilkes, member for Aylesbury, was a master of innuendo, insinuation, and circumlocution, and said in the paper what he dared not say from
his seat in the Commons. He assailed not only the peace arranged by Lord
Bute and John Russell, the Duke of Bedford, and the means by which that
peace was arrived at and approved in the Commons, but Bute himself, his
assumed intimate relationship with George the Third’s mother, the
Princess Dowager, and the motives and characters of anyone associated
with the “court party.”
One inviolable tradition of the status quo was never to take the sovereign to task for his policies, actions, or behavior. The king, after all, could
do no wrong. Worse still was to suggest, no matter how tactfully, that the
king was a liar, a fool, or the dupe of his ministers. In the eyes of the courts
and the Act of Settlement, to flout this tradition was to invite the grave
charge of seditious libel.
Having accomplished their purpose, which was Bute’s resignation and
the formation of a new administration under Grenville, Lord Temple —
who was the new First Lord’s younger brother — and Wilkes were about to
cease publication of
The North Briton
when George the Third, in an address
to Parliament, endorsed the terms of the Treaty. A few days later, in April,
1763, Number Forty-five of the paper opined, among other things, that
…The Minister’s speech of last Tuesday is not to be paralleled
in the annals of this country. I am in doubt whether the imposition
is greater on the Sovereign, or on the nation….
Friends and enemies alike of Wilkes knew that the man in doubt was
doubtless John Wilkes, who explained that “the King’s Speech has always
been considered as the speech of the Minister.” By the standards of the day,
this was as venomous a shot at the king as could be imagined. The “Minister” spoke for the king, by the king’s leave. Ergo, to doubt the sincerity of
the one’s words was to sully the character of the other. Parliament regularly
approved the king’s addresses to that body, and composed humble counteraddresses of thanks to him. To have a member of that body subject the king
to such criticism was intolerable, his subtle disclaimers notwithstanding.
Parliament had adjourned until November, but the offense could not be
allowed to stand unnoticed and unpunished. Three days after the appearance of Number Forty-five, the Secretaries of State for the Northern and
Southern Departments, Lords Egremont and Halifax, jointly signed a general warrant for the “arrest of the authors, printers, and publishers of a
seditious and treasonable paper,”
The North Briton
. No one person was
named in the warrant, nor was the specific act of sedition or treason
described or identified. The Crown simply wanted to lay hands on Wilkes,
then decide at its leisure which charges and action could be credibly and
lawfully brought against him that would still his infuriating pen.
By the time Hugh Kenrick arrived in England, the initial round of the
conflict was over. Wilkes was arrested, interrogated by the Secretaries of
State, and committed to the Tower — but not before the king’s messengers
succumbed to his charm and inadvertently allowed him to destroy the original manuscript of Number Forty-five, and therewith evidence of his
authorship of it. He later secured a writ of
habeas corpus
from Chief Justice
Charles Pratt in the Court of Common Pleas, and after two appearances in
that court at Westminster Hall was released by Pratt and other judges who
upheld his privileged, protected status as a member of the Commons.
Wilkes’s attorney had also claimed wrongful commitment to the Tower and
questioned the legality of the general warrant, but these arguments were
dismissed. That summer, the triumphant Wilkes and the arrested printers
filed suits for damages against the Secretaries of State and the Treasury’s
solicitor.
* * *
“John Wilkes?” asked Hugh. He turned to his father. “You mentioned
him briefly in one of your last letters. What has he done?”
Garnet Kenrick chuckled. “What hasn’t he done?” The Baron searched
through some papers on his desk and pulled out a newspaper, then handed it
to his son over the desk. It was a copy of
The North Briton
, Number Forty-five.
Hugh returned to his chair and read the opening paragraphs on the
front sheet of the multipage broadside. He grimaced in doubt, then
frowned. He said to Jones, “This is a lesser transgression than what the
Pippins were charged with and tried for, Mr. Jones. It is subtle and cutting,
to be sure, but I fail to see why the king would take so much offense at it.”
Jones shrugged. “All true, milord. But the difference is that he is in the
Commons, while the Pippins were not. Fundamentally, though, the circumstances do not differ. As the persecution of the Society of the Pippin
was a premeditated, arranged affair, achieved in concert with the King’s
Bench, so was this action. The government have been wanting to silence
him for over a year, ever since Lord Bute’s accession to the throne — if you
will allow me the libel.”
“In my home, it is allowed,” remarked Garnet Kenrick with a smile.
Hugh put the paper back on his father’s desk. “And what has happened
to Mr. Wilkes?”
The Baron and the barrister took turns retelling each episode of the
sequence of events.
When they were finished, Hugh asked, “And the affair is past?”
“Oh, no, milord,” said Jones, with a shake of the head. “They have not
done with him, not by a whim. Certainly the House will make Mr. Wilkes
one of the first orders of the day when it reconvenes in November. His
words will be taken down, and if he wishes to remain a member, the House
will require him to beg its pardon — on his knees, no less. Not only did he
tweak the king’s nose with relative impunity, but very likely he will win his
suit against Egremont and Halifax. He cannot be allowed the satisfaction of
victory. It would embolden others to emulate him and essay their own
breaches of the royal peace. Half a dozen members are eager to make him a
premier order of business.”
“Had he no champions in the Opposition?”
Garnet Kenrick shrugged, then sighed. “The man is disliked by his
allies,” he said. “Mr. Pitt, Lord Rockingham, even Lord Temple, were reluctant to defend him publicly. It was Temple who subsidized the paper, and
who has parted ways with his brother, Grenville — much as your uncle and
Ihave parted ways. One irony among others is that it was Grenville who
helped to promote Mr. Wilkes’s career and material gains, not to mention
arranged his candidacy for Aylesbury with Mr. Pitt — who, incidentally, is
Grenville’s brother-in-law.”
“I have met this squinting, cross-eyed wretch, milord,” said Jones. “I
paid him a call when he was committed to the Tower. He is the most odious
rallying point for liberty one could have the misfortune to encounter. But
for his attire, manners, and ready wit, you would take him for a career
beggar, or a mad creature released on bad advice from the confines of
Bedlam Hospital. He inveigled his way into the profitable acquaintanceship
of his patrons, married his money, and more or less purchased his seat for
Aylesbury for some seven thousand pounds from that borough’s householders. His dissolute past is legend. Poets and men of letters are as much
dazzled by his company as are ladies of commerce, some of whom were present in his well-appointed cell when I called. He can revel in any society. I
can imagine him seducing the intellects of the likes of Dr. Johnson and that
exalted gossip, Horace Walpole. He is ambitious and capable, and has a certain appeal to the working populace. I have heard that he is planning to
publish all forty-five numbers of
The North Briton
in a single volume, in
addition to some questionable parody of Mr. Pope’s
Essay on Man
, together
with other scurvy prose.” Jones waved a hand once. “But — he is in the
right. I would not choose him for constant company, but I admire his
audacity.” He paused. “Mr. Pitt and other cold friends of Mr. Wilkes? Well,
it is easy to champion a virtuous hero, but much less so a grasping, disreputable rogue. It so happens, however, that it is a rogue who has done a
hero’s feat, which in this case is to say what needed to be said in the face
of certain official reprisal.”
Hugh asked, “Do you think he will apologize to the House?”
“No,” said Jones without hesitation. “In which case, the House most
certainly will vote to censure him in some way. Failing that, perhaps the
ministerial party among the members will conjure up some other means of
ridding their pristine persons of his presence. More likely, though, Mr.
Wilkes will hand them the means with the collected
North Briton
. He is
determined to speak freely without fear of recrimination. Rogue or hero,
that is what every man ought to strive for as an unassailable liberty. That
is why I say they are not done with him.”
Hugh smiled, and glanced from Jones to his father and back again. He
shook his head once and laughed. “I cannot explain it, but you two seem to
complement each other. Your association pleases me more than I can say.”
The two older men laughed in appreciation and gratitude.
Just then, Alice, fourteen years old, burst into the study to announce
dinner. She was a pretty, sandy-haired girl, vivacious and gracile. It also
pleased Hugh that she had not forgotten him, and their reunion yesterday
afternoon had been as happy as that of the parents and son. In a spontaneous display of affection, she wrapped her arms around Hugh’s neck and
kissed him on the cheek, then conferred the same feeling for her father, and
finally, to Hugh’s bemused shock, for Dogmael Jones, whom she addressed
as “Uncle.”
“S
ir Dogmael and I struck up a long and fruitful correspondence
after your departure, Hugh,” Garnet Kenrick said from the head
of the dinner table. “Very soon we found that we agreed on so
many matters that we felt we should meet. He became a regular guest at
Milgram House, and now here at Cricklegate. We enjoy his company, and
he ours. I did not know that a lawyer could be so likable.”
Jones chuckled as he passed a plate of beef to Effney Kenrick. “And I
did not know that a baron’s company could be so agreeable.”
“All in all,” continued the Baron, “our friendship — and it is that as
much as it is an alliance — was propinquitous. At about the time that we
were both expressing concern over the heat generated by Mr. Wilkes’s
statements, Mr. Ingoldsby went to his final reward. Mr. Worley informed
me of it, and I instantly tendered Mr. Jones the idea of his replacing him,
provided I moved quickly enough to purchase the seat. He had in the past
alluded to a wish to enter politics. However, he lacked the means and the
friends who could put him up. I had the means, and a qualified wish to be
heard, but lacked both the skill to speak on my feet and the desire to
address so many heads. Also, until then, there were no boroughs open to
purchase. Your uncle retains control of Onyxcombe and Mr. Hillier. And
there you are: Swansditch.”
Jones leaned forward and remarked to Hugh across the table, “Your
father often addresses and refers to me as ‘Mr. Jones.’ It is out of respect for
my knighthood. That way, you see, he secures two friends in the guise of
one.”
Everyone at the table laughed, including Alice. Garnet Kenrick waved
a fork at the barrister. “There, Hugh, is the reason I want him to speak for
us in the Commons. There are few men who could match his quick oratory.”
Hugh studied the barrister for a moment. “Aside from Mr. Wilkes, sir,
why do you wish to sit in the Commons?”
“I have many reasons, milord,” answered Jones. “First, I wish to see
the debates — which in the past I was obliged to pay a crown to audit from
the gallery — reported to the public. The public have a right to know what
is said and by whom, since it is their pockets and how they may be best
emptied that are the subjects of so many debates. Further, I for one am tired
of second-guessing the coy, allusive reportage that appears in our newspapers. It is an ancient complaint, mine. Both Houses wish to keep their proceedings sunk in the murky waters of privilege, tradition, and unaccountability. Half my career in the courts has consisted of defending printers and
writers who dare drain that swamp of secrecy, or who at least part the cloak
of scum floating on top to see what lies beneath. Beginning with the next
session, I intend to raise the matter as often as I can entice an ally to second
the motion. I fully expect my motion to be ignored or opposed. But I shall
persist. I shall bedevil them.”
The barrister paused to take a sip of wine. “Then, I wish to push for a
change in the statutes, so that every man may say that the king can do
wrong, without risking persecution with general warrants, without fear of
suits for libel for having made an honest or truthful observation, without
provoking a summons to attend the Commons or Lords to be excoriated,
humiliated, or bullied. And, I shall speak against general warrants and
attainders, those legal pistols of royal and ministerial scamps.” Jones
returned Hugh’s attentive study of him. “Mr. Wilkes is the wedge with
which our privileged burglars may apply the rum lay and crack open the
door to our liberties. From him, they may progress up the ladder of honor
and repute, until they can prosecute and harry a man of the highest virtue,
and call him criminal with impunity. I am certain you see the relevance,
milord. If this is what the ministers and Parliament are wont to do to one
of their own, what might they be moved to commit on the rest of the
nation, or even on the colonies, in the name of an unbreached peace and
national tranquility? Your father and I agree on this, as well, that the whole
North Briton
affair portends an assault on English liberties no less bellicose
than if a Stuart proposed to exercise his scepter, or his messenger his mace,
on our backs and heads!”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Effney Kenrick.
Her husband said quietly, “Hear, hear!” and raised his glass in salute
to the barrister.
Hugh smiled at them. “You will honor the House with such sentiments, sir, and rouse it to action with your passion.”
Jones nodded once in acknowledgment. “Thank you, milord.” He
chuckled once, then added, “Let us hope that the action is not a call to have
a general warrant served on me.” He paused to smile in the expression of a
solemn penance. “It is only justice that, having failed to secure the acquittal
of your friends the Pippins, I become one myself.”
“You honor their memory with such dedication, sir,” said Hugh. He
glanced at his father, and indicated Jones with a movement of his head. “It
was well worth the voyage home, if only to hear this man speak.”
“I expected you to say that, Hugh, sooner or later, knowing the importance you place on well-strung words.”
The table was quiet for a while, except for the sounds of silverware on
porcelain plates and the soft ringing of glass. Then Hugh asked the barrister, “How do you find the Commons, Mr. Jones?”
Jones dabbed his mouth with his napkin and shrugged. “I took my seat
near the end of the last session, I confess not without some trepidation. You
know that I am not easily cowed. My anxiety was based, not on shyness,
but on fear of what I should find. I called attention neither to my positions
nor to myself. My purpose was to take stock of my future arena of combat.
As I grew more familiar with the rules and runagates of that cyclopean
raree show, my anxiety waxed to contempt. Now, there are nearly six hundred members in the Commons — and thank God for lassitude that only
half that number deign to attend on a regular basis, for otherwise we
should all suffocate in that chamber, or crush ourselves to death, in a repetition of the Black Hole in Calcutta! Well, perhaps a tiny fraction of that
body can grasp reason, and require only plain common sense garbed in the
raiment of eloquence.
“Most of the others are Calibans who require merely harmonious
sounds strung together, peppered here with an ounce of anger, and spiced
there with a humorous quip, to hold their attention, whether or not a
speaker conveys any meaning.” Jones paused to smile with mischief. “I crib
liberally from that lancet of rhetoric, Earl Chesterfield, whom I chanced to
overhear one evening discoursing on the same subject to his company at
Ranelagh, in the next private compartment.”
Jones paused to take a sip of wine, then continued. “As to individual
members, most of them, upon being engaged in conversation, succumb to
the vanity of importance and will emit an aura of influence, and pose as
persons intimately connected to the pilots of policy. They will tell you,
whether or not you have ventured the least curiosity, that they regret they
are not at liberty to divulge any information on the question before the
House, or to violate the confidence of their ghostly compatriots. They
would have you believe that they know something about what is to happen,
when in fact they are as ignorant as you are of the intentions, ploys, and
purposes of the pilots. As their own noggins are swayed by tricked-up
folderol, they assume that you, too, swoon before airy influence, or are a
rival vessel of awful intrigue.”
Jones sighed and shook his head. “Nevertheless, when I am called on
to speak, all my persuasion shall shine silver. I shall stand and face the
clock on the gallery above the Chair, and with half-closed eyes, imagine that
I am addressing an assembly of Solons.”
“As a paladin of liberty,” said the Baron, smiling with pride at the barrister, “as the new Fierabras, undaunted by the number of his foes, unbaptized by the perjurious deceit of Crown sinecures, towering over the heads
of the trolls of complacency and circuitous virtue!”
Jones laughed. “I have yet to make my maiden speech, milord,” he said.
“I beg you to wait until I have had an opportunity to wield my cane in the
House and have earned that appellation. But, I thank you for the encouragement.” Then he added wryly, “And you claim an absence of eloquence!
Do not blame me if I cadge your table talk.”
“’A paladin of liberty,’” mused Hugh, glancing from his father to Jones.
“I like that. I have every confidence that you will earn the title, sir.” He
paused. “Tell me, though: Have you solved the riddle of public places?” he
asked, referring to their first meeting at Serjeants’ Inn years ago.
Jones shook his head. “I should have expected that you would not
forget that, milord,” he said. “No, not quite. I am taking notes for a book on
that aspect of property and law. And I am certain I will contradict some of
Mr. Blackstone’s meditations on property and speech. His Toryism at times
skews his honesty and objectivity.”
Hugh remembered the list of things he was asked to find and take back
to Caxton. “Blackstone! Yes! You must help me find a digest of the constitution, sir. Has he published anything of his Oxford lectures?”
“Yes, milord.
An Analysis of the Laws of England
. It is addressed to students. But, I have heard that he is compiling an elaborate commentary on
the laws.” Jones paused with a sour frown. “Mr. Blackstone is a member
for Hindon, and has been made solicitor-general to Queen Charlotte.”
“Then I must find several copies of his
Analysis
for friends in Virginia.” Hugh went on to describe his friends in Caxton and their interest in
the constitution.
The company listened with fascination to his description of Jack Frake,
John Proudlocks, and other men who were his neighbors. At length, Jones
remarked, “They are wise to want to know more about the intricacies of
the laws, milord. They may have reason, some day, to adopt and amend
them — as their own.”
The dinner talk progressed, over coffee and cake smothered in marmalade of orange, from law to another current controversy, which was the
dubious authenticity of
Fingal
, a collection of Scottish epic poetry by the
third-century warrior Ossian, published earlier in the year by a scholar,
James Macpherson. The prose was generally thought to be a hoax by many
critics and other scholars, who suspected that Macpherson was the true
author.
Jones said, with a shrug of dismissal, “If this barbarian Conan and his
chronicler Ossian actually existed, then some mention of them would have
been made by one ancient historian or another. But I have not encountered
these names in any of the standard Roman accounts of the conquest of this
island.”
Hugh asked, “Why would a person invest so much labor to perpetrate
a literary fraud?”
“To give himself and his ancestors a glorious past, himself alone a fellowless reputation among scholars, and a princely income. But Mr.
Macpherson’s crime is not fundamentally dissimilar from the fanciful cogitations I hear voiced in the clubs and taverns that neighbor Westminster
Yard. There are many in Parliament who wish that body to rule the
colonies in the stead and name of the king.” The barrister paused, then
added, “Not that the colonies would fare much better from His Majesty’s
gentle ministrations.”
“Have you met Sir Henoch Pannell?” Hugh remembered encountering
the member for Canovan in the Yard, and listening to his speech in the
Commons.
Jones scoffed and nodded. “That one? Oh, yes. I have met him. He is
noted for his Parthian shots, or barbs flung over his shoulder as he departs
the scene of verbal combat.”
* * *
The days and weeks passed for Hugh with a kind of luxuriant, unhurried ease. He spent much of the time with his parents and sister, on excursions by boat up the Thames to Hampton Court, during evenings at
Ranelagh Gardens just a short carriage ride down the Thames from
Chelsea, and in the warm, landscaped garden of Cricklegate. Often he went
to London with his father to see Mr. Worley at Lion Key on business, and
to the bank of Formby, Pursehouse & Swire, in which the Baron was a
major partner, and to the Royal Exchange to meet with other merchants
and traders. There were concerts, and theater, and art galleries to attend,
and bookstores and print shops to scour for volumes and pictures to take
back to Virginia.
“Have you heard from Reverdy?” his mother asked him as they strolled
together along Cheyne Walk one afternoon late in June.
“No,” Hugh said. “Not since her last letter. Have you?”
“No. The Brunes and we no longer exchange visits. And we were
strangers to the McDougals.”
Hugh felt his mother’s probing scrutiny, and looked down at her. “It is
past, Mother. Do not concern yourself.”
“Do you…think of her?”
“At times,” Hugh said. “Almost as often as I think of the moon. Her
decision no longer pains me. If that was the depth of her courage, we could
not have long endured each other. I have accepted that.”
Effney Kenrick’s hand was linked to her son’s arm, which she
squeezed once in relieved affirmation. “Have you met any ladies in
Caxton?”
“Many,” Hugh said. “But the only one who stands out is the daughter
of a Scottish trader. She is a lovely girl. She plays the harp. Spoken for,
though, by my friend, Jack. I must find some fresh music for her.”
“We exchange visits with the Tallmadges,” said the Baroness, “when
we are in Danvers and they are here. I suppose you know that Roger’s regiment was reduced, and he is on home service now.”
“Yes, as an instructor of mathematics at Woolwich for the engineers
and artillery officers.” Woolwich was the Royal Military Academy, far
down river near Deptford. “Would you mind it much if I went down and
spent a few days with him? He is a fully commissioned lieutenant now, but
there is a chance he may be appointed secretary to a diplomatic mission to
Copenhagen next month.”
Effney Kenrick laughed. “I would mind it very much, Hugh, and so
would your father, but at least you won’t be a thousand leagues away.”
After a while, Hugh asked, “Has there been any word of poor Hulton?
The last I heard from him, his regiment was being sent to the Isle of Wight
for marshalling.”
“No,” sighed his mother. “I am afraid he has quite vanished on us.”
On another day, Hugh and his father went on horseback on an excursion to Wandsworth, “to see Mr. Jones’s indifferent pasturage,” explained
the Baron. From Chelsea they rode to the toll bridge at the villages of
Fulham and Pultney, then east through the countryside. On both their saddles were holsters with pistols loaded with double-shot. There had been a
rash of robberies by highwaymen of travelers in the area. On the way, they
talked of politics, of Dogmael Jones, of the family, of the goods brought in
by the family-owned merchantmen the
Busy
, the
Nimble
, and the
Ariadne
.
And of Basil Kenrick, the Earl of Danvers, Garnet Kenrick’s brother.
“How does he feel about your seat in the Commons?” Hugh asked his
father.
Garnet Kenrick rolled his shoulders. “Frankly, Hugh, I don’t know. We
do not communicate much any more on family or any other matters, except
when I send him copies of the accounts and the monies owed him from the
estate. I don’t know who feeds his malice more: You, or I for having put you
out of his reach.”
“It troubles me that any man could nurture hatred for so long a time.”
“I have the sense now that his malice has lost even a particular object.
Your uncle has become merely a nasty, malicious man. I am as glad as you
must be to be away from him.”
They rode on in silence for a while. When they neared the little collection of farmhouses that was the “seat” of Dogmael Jones’s pasturage,
Garnet Kenrick cleared his throat and said, “Not many winters ago, Hugh,
in Danvers, you told me that you wanted to be something.” The Baron
paused to smile at the look of astonishment on his son’s face. “No, I have
not forgotten that day, not that one, nor many others. Well, you have
become something, as surely as if God had fashioned you with his own
hands. But — the hands were your own. When you first arrived last month,
and I saw you standing in the foyer, I saw, not just my son, but a planter,
and a full man, and the future — a future so thrilling and inevitable that I
am reluctant to imagine it.” He chuckled to himself. “I believe I told you
that you were going to be a baron, and then an earl. But even then, I knew
that my answer was not enough, that it was poor consolation to you, and I
galloped away from the knowledge, quite certain that you were right.”
After a moment, Hugh looked at his father. “You should not worry,
Father. I will not stop loving you and Mother. You will not lose me.”
Garnet Kenrick nodded in acknowledgment, and then looked away. “In
all your letters to me and your mother, I sensed an air of liberty, one that
you could not have discovered and enjoyed here, for all the advantages of
your station. That is why I will say now that
you
are the chief reason I have
ventured into politics. To protect you, to speak in your name through Mr.
Jones, to somehow introduce here what you have known there, in Virginia.
For myself, it is both a means of atonement for the neglect I am guilty of,
and a means of asserting myself.”
Hugh shook his head in genuine bewilderment. “I cannot think of anything for which you should atone, Father, least of all neglect. The notion is
absurd.”
The Baron cleared his throat again. “Not so absurd, Hugh. Much of our
fortune in the past came from illicit trade. There was a smuggling gang in
Dorset known as the Lobster Pots. I had close connections with them for
years, long before you were born. Your mother does not even know of
them. The
Busy
and the
Nimble
for years dealt with them. Your education
and time in London were largely paid for with the proceeds from that
furtive association.”
“I see.” Hugh studied his father for a moment, then looked away. After
a while, he shrugged. “Well, many of the most prosperous merchants in the
colonies have a hand in smuggling. As well as many merchants here. If it
were not for the navigation laws and taxes and regulations, they would
trade openly. They would prefer to.” He paused. “Mr. Talbot keeps separate
account books for that trade. So do many of his colleagues, up and down
the seaboard, in all the colonies.”
“I know,” confessed the Baron. “But, we profited from injustice, Hugh.
No more, though. At about the time I became a partner in the bank, I broke
our association with the Lobster Pots.” He glanced at his son with a new
wonder. “I had expected you to be offended by the knowledge.”
“I am not,” Hugh said. “I have observed that such a gross injustice can
sire two kinds of cunning: insensible or pragmatic, and rebellious or
defiant. In time, however, if the injustice continues, they must ultimately
oppose each other. Or, the rebellious and defiant become corrupted and
wish the injustice to be perpetuated.”
The Baron shook his head. “Please, Hugh, do not make any distinctions for my sake. Although your uncle and I may be counted in the first
instance.”
Hugh was quiet for a while. Then he said, “But, I must make a distinction, sir. I see now that
I
am not the sole reason why relations between
you and Uncle Basil have become so evil. You are a good man, and I am
proud to claim you as a father. Do not deny it. You would offend me with
a contrary pretence.”
Garnet Kenrick fell back behind his son, slowing his mount a little with
the reins. He did not wish his son to see the emotion on his face. He said,
after they had ridden some distance, “One reason why I sent you away,
Hugh, was that your uncle threatened to inform you of the Lobster Pots.”
Hugh turned and faced his father with a challenging smile. “If you are
ever of a mind to enter that business again, Father, write me in Caxton, and
together we shall defy both him and the Crown.”
While a great burden was lifted from Garnet Kenrick’s mind, his son’s
words caused him a tinge of sadness, for in them was a hint of the future
he was reluctant to contemplate. And, the notion flitted through his mind
that it was his son’s character and welfare that had redeemed him.