“Our greatest security,” the clergyman announced, “is that the French do not know how unprepared we are – and could never believe the folly of our ministers.”
The company then all wanted to hear his views on America. He told them frankly, relating all he knew about the kind of men who opposed them. He told them about the Hillier boy, his belief in Tom Paine’s pamphlet and in his natural rights. They were spellbound. When he had done, one of the country gentlemen said bleakly:
“I do not like one word of what you have told us, Captain Shockley. I oppose utterly the political notions you say these people have. But I’m vastly obliged to you because for the first time in five years I think I understand what this matter of America is truly about.” There were murmurs of assent. “I think now that our cause is lost,” he concluded.
“And yet,” Forest said, “here’s the trouble. And it’s what the king fears. If we grant such rights of self-government to America, and such radical notions are seen to hold sway there, why, Ireland will want to follow her, and the West Indies. We can’t have that.”
Now the boiled chicken arrived. Also a pig’s face, tongue and veal roasted with truffles. There were peas and beans for vegetables, and more wine. The conversation passed naturally to political arguments at home. They discussed Burke the statesman and philosopher, who sympathised with the Americans but defended the English Constitution just as it was.
“Burke’s right,” Forest remarked, “that our strength comes not from a set of rights we claim overnight, but from the deep pattern of our history and institutions. That’s what makes a nation great.”
“Very good, Joshua,” cried the younger of the MPs, “it’s even given us Lord North!” And the whole company laughed.
It was generally agreed however, that the ancient system of British laws and government could hardly be bettered.
“Consider our laws,” the clergyman said. “Who here has read Blackstone’s
Commentaries
?”
These huge volumes had appeared ten years before. They showed, beyond a doubt, that the common laws and privileges of the English came from ancient Saxon times – also that they could hardly be improved upon.
Two MPs both made faces which suggested that they might be familiar with the great work, but preferred not to be questioned too closely, but since, as it happened, Adam had perused it during his long and tedious garrison duty before the American war he answered calmly:
“I have. Though I’d have preferred it if Blackstone had allowed for some improvements to be made.”
“There,” Forest said in delight. “Captain Shockley has you.” And giving Adam a smile with a new warmth in it he announced, “Captain Shockley is a man of learning.”
They discussed other matters. Wilkes, that persistent trouble-maker in the Commons, had suggested a bill to reform the parliamentary representation and abolish some of the pocket boroughs like Old Sarum with their handful of electors in order to give more votes to the developing cities and the middle classes.
The company denounced it as infamous, but when Forest asked Shockley what he thought, Adam paused before replying.
Personally, he thought it reasonable, but he had no wish to offend his fellow guests; so he contented himself with saying:
“A little reform early may be wiser than none until it is too late.”
This seemed to satisfy the party, and the conversation moved on.
But for the first time he became aware that in some indefinable way he was being tested, and he remembered his father’s word of caution to him before he came. He wondered what was coming next.
Not another question, it turned out, but the next course: pigeons and asparagus, teal, woodcock, a pair of whistling plovers, and more red wine.
The conversation turned to lighter subjects: to Mr Gibbon’s new book on the fall of the Roman Empire, Mr Sheridan’s new play, a fine painting by Gainsborough; and although Shockley realised that Forest’s hand was gently guiding them for some, no doubt carefully calculated, purpose of his own, he could not help admiring the art with which it was done.
Though he had not stepped into the fashionable world, Adam was glad to find that on most matters he could hold his own. But even in this genial banter, his instinct told him that Forest was noting carefully everything he said.
Obviously Sir Joshua was satisfied, for suddenly he declared:
“I think Captain Shockley would be interested in a curiosity that was recently discovered,” and he left the table for a few minutes to return with a small piece of parchment which he passed round. “This was found in a box at Avonsford Manor just before we left the place,” he explained. “Who can tell me what it is?”
It was a single drawing. It was hard to guess the date, but it could hardly have been less than two centuries old.
It depicted a circular maze – not one in which a man would get lost, but one in which he would follow a winding path symmetrically arranged in four sectors that would lead him tediously back and forth until he finally reached the centre. Under it was the legend:
“And I found the place,” Forest said. “I’m sure of it: in a circle of yew trees on a hill above the manor. I could even see faint traces of marks upon the ground which seemed to correspond with this plan. What is it, Captain Shockley?”
Adam had to confess he had no idea.
“I believe ’tis one of those formal arrangements they cared for so much in the time of Queen Elizabeth,” one of the party suggested. “Usually they were made with hedges.”
“’Tis what I supposed,” Forest agreed.
But it was the clergyman, glancing carelessly at the parchment, who shook his head.
“No sir. I know something of antiquities and I can tell you it is far older than that. This is a pagan design, sir, from before Christian or even Roman times. It’s as Celtic as Stonehenge.” And he spoke with such finality that no one could doubt this was the history of the miz-maze. That a medieval knight had made his lonely pilgrimage upon it, none of that distinguished company ever knew.
Now came a lobster. A further choice of wine.
The wine was very good. Adam was not in the least fuddled, but he felt warm and relaxed. Each course, he realised, had brought a new topic of conversation, yet Forest had turned the subject so neatly one never noticed the change. He gazed at the lobster before him. How was it they were now discussing agriculture? He could not remember.
“The time for the small farmer is nearly over, I’m afraid,” Forest was saying. “All my tenants are on short leases now and I’ve had Acts of Parliament to enclose three thousand acres in the north of the county. But I’m not sure I shall do it even so. Some say I shouldn’t.”
Shockley knew that in the cheese and dairy country to the north there had been a deal of enclosing of land. A landlord had to apply for an Act of Parliament to take over common land in this way, but this permission was easily got. Some protested that poor farmers were being driven off the land, yet could not deny that the newly enclosed areas were usually more efficient.
“What is your opinion, Captain Shockley?” Forest asked.
It was a trap. Adam had drunk a quantity of wine, but he saw it clearly enough.
“I think the change is inevitable,” he replied. And remembering a long and informative conversation he had had recently about the subject with Benjamin Mason he added: “There’s another consideration you did not mention. Many small farmers earn the extra money they need to survive by encouraging their wives and daughters to spin. But there is a new invention coming into use – the mechanical spinning jenny. It’s appearing in this county already. Once that’s in general use, there’ll be no need for the spinsters and I think that will tip the balance in these parts. When the small farmers can’t survive, then they won’t require the common land at all and the objections to enclosure won’t exist. I regret it,” he admitted, “because I’ll be heartily sorry to see the passing of a way of life I knew as a child. But it will happen.” He paused for a moment before adding: “As to your question – enclose now or not – then I say every man must answer to his conscience. If you hurt a man by doing so, compensate him fairly.”
He stopped. Why was he so dissatisfied with his answer, every word of which he believed and knew to be true? He frowned.
But the effect upon the table was dramatic. Every eye was turned upon him in admiration. Finally Forest spoke.
“That’s the most damned sensible speech, sir, I ever heard in my life.”
And then Adam knew why he despised himself for what he had said, true as it was. It was because it was a politician’s speech. He had told them exactly what they wanted to hear. If Forest chose to rack rent or dispossess, he could do so, armed with such advice, secure in the knowledge that he had only his conscience to answer to.
It seemed to him that a sort of relief descended on the table. If he was being tested, then the examination was over.
He raised the question of sheep as well, and recommended the introduction of the Sussex breed to replace the failed new Wiltshire animals. This, too, seemed to meet with approval.
Now came apricot tarts, gooseberry tarts; custards; also a trifle and, for those with a more savoury tooth, stewed mushrooms. And more wine.
“Do you care to hunt, Captain?” the clergyman asked.
“Not at present,” Adam confessed.
“Hunting the fox is the best sport in the world,” the clergyman said pleasantly. “Lord Arundel has a fine pack of hounds – we call it the South and West Wiltshire – not twenty miles from here. Perhaps you’d care to join us in the new season.”
The tarts were followed by dessert – a melon, oranges, almonds and raisins.
Decanters of port appeared on the table.
A mood of satisfaction descended upon the company, contentedly aware that they had done the duty of every gentleman in England and eaten all that it was physically possible to consume with dignity.
At the second glass of port it became clear that Forest and the clergyman had the clearest heads, but Adam was keeping pace with them.
“I recently had a long conversation with a Wesleyan,” he remarked to the clergyman. “What do you think of them?”
“They are enthusiasts,” the younger MP interrupted, “like all reformers. The line between an enthusiast and a fanatic is too thin to see.”
But to Adam’s surprise, the hunting clergyman with many benefices was tolerant.
“To tell the truth, Captain Shockley,” he replied candidly, “I think better of them than they do of me. They say we live too easy in the Church and preach too little. ’Tis often true. They say we have no fire. I don’t deny it.” He sipped his port thoughtfully. “Wesley, you know, is an honest man: a fine one. If he can reform the existing church – if he adds salt to our meat – let him do so. I care less for his followers, though.” A brief expression of distaste flitted across his large, fleshy face. “They complain that the Church of England is become a social institution. So it is. And ’tis very well. They want to break with us – Wesley doesn’t – and there I oppose them. For I believe in the institutions of society. They are conducive to morality and to order, and,” he smiled mischievously, “with such comfortable fellows as we presiding, are greatly inclined to tolerance – which few reformers are.”
Shockley grinned. It was hard not to like the man.
“Forest,” called the comfortable clergyman, “Captain Shockley and I lack port.”
At the third glass of port there came over him that sudden sense of unreality which tells a wise man not to drink a fourth.
It was with the third glass that the talk turned to philosophy.
“No hard, dry Aristotle for me,” the clergyman remarked in a comfortable, mellow tone. “Give me men of large ideas. Give me Plato.” He surveyed the table to see how many of the party were still alert. “I am for Bishop Berkeley,” he announced. “That everything is only in the mind.”
“Expound,” Forest demanded. The clergyman obliged.
“You can only tell me anything about the world, Forest, by what you see and feel. Take any object – tell me its shape, its colour, its taste – they are all qualities which are represented in your own mind. Its existence therefore is only in your own mind. To be, is to be seen. Without you to see it, therefore, I claim that the object has no existence.” He leaned back in his chair and stared round the company with amusement. “Is there a man here sober enough to dispute with me?”
Ah, but in the long years of his exile, Adam Shockley had had time to read; and he knew the answer to Berkeley.
“Certainly,” he said, and kicked the table sharply so that one of the country gentlemen started up from his sleep. “I kicked the table and it informed me that it did exist. Perhaps you’d care to do the same.”
“The evening goes to Captain Shockley,” Forest announced, “by a length and a half at least.”
As he crossed the close that evening, Adam knew that he had done well. Whatever reason Forest had for inspecting him, he had been satisfied, for as he paused at the door, Sir Joshua had asked him to come to see him at ten o’clock the following morning.