Empire (25 page)

George Wythe could not be contained. He shot up and began speaking before Randolph had a chance to recognize him. “What you are proposing, young sir,” he shouted across the floor, waving an accusing finger at Hugh, “is lawlessness and rebellion!”

Hugh rose again and replied, “Lawlessness you shall have, sir, should this law become a permanent feature of our lives and its costliness banish so many men from the rule of law! You are an attorney, and ought to see ahead of things. As for proposing rebellion, I propose no more than what Mr. Locke prescribes, that we remind our presumptuous rulers of the proper forms of government for liberty!”

“There are constitutional methods of reminding them of that, sir!” said Richard Bland, who now stood with Wythe.

Hugh pointed a rigid finger at the Stamp Act. “Is
that
constitutional, sir?

“If a high court deems it such, yes, it may well be!”

“Then you are qualified to be Caesar’s attorney, sir!”

By now, burgesses on both sides of the chamber were on their feet, clamoring for recognition or shouting accusations and retorts across the floor at one another. Only the spectators were quiet. Jack Frake and Etáin held hands in solemn excitement. John Proudlocks gazed up at Hugh in admiration. Captain Ramshaw was grinning broadly, while Wendel Barret behind him cackled with delight.

By the lobby door, Thomas Jefferson glanced over the heads of other spectators crowded around him, undecided whether to laugh in celebration or frown in sympathy for Wythe. He mused to the usher who stood next to him, “My mentor has been thoroughly lathered and shaved.” And the usher could not decide whether the young man was expressing joy or grief.

Peyton Randolph’s eyes were wide with fright. The pandemonium was worse than what which occurred last December and beyond his experience. He nodded urgently to his brother John to gavel the House back into order. That equally alarmed man seized the gavel and hammered it repeatedly, shouting above the shouts, “Order in this House! Order in this House! This committee will come to order!” He took the trouble to rise and remain standing, demurely hefting the gavel in his hand, until he saw that the last member had again taken his seat. The burgesses, in what seemed an eternity to him, reluctantly obeyed, muttering half-heard last words in answer to grumbled imprecations from across the floor.

The sole burgess who did not join in the verbal fracas was Patrick
Henry. He had remained seated while his allies and enemies traded blows, serenely observing, listening, and thinking. When Colonel Munford was again at his side, Henry leaned closer to him and said softly, “Each side has now expended its venom, and so minds will be clearer for the next business.” He turned to glance up at Hugh, and nodded once in acknowledgment and appreciation.

John Randolph, satisfied that the House was in order, turned and sat down at his table. His brother Peyton looked warily around the chamber, and spoke only when he was certain he had regained his own composure. “Now that we all seem to have had our say on Mr. Kenrick’s remarks, gentlemen, we may put away our grappling hooks and muskets, and be pleased to move on. Has anyone something of better substance to say on this subject?”

The burgesses were not certain of the object of the Attorney-General’s veiled rebuke: themselves, or Hugh Kenrick.

Patrick Henry rose, and a special hush blanketed the House, as though every person in it had stopped breathing. He stood holding what looked like a page torn from a book. Many of the spectators edged closer to the railing to hear what he had to say. Peyton Randolph, suddenly alert and it beginning to dawn on him that perhaps he was not in full control of the proceedings, stared at this new nemesis for a moment before deciding to recognize the burgess from Louisa County.

Henry nodded, and said, “I wish to introduce a number of resolutions to the committee for its sagacious consideration.”

T
he floor, the audience, and the moment were Henry’s. He spoke, and as he spoke, his eyes swept the House and graciously included his known enemies as men worthy of his address. He was bareheaded, having given Colonel Munford his hat to hold. The chamber was still enough now so that its occupants frowned occasionally in annoyance at the intrusive sounds of the distant rattling of a wagon as it passed the Capitol, of the muted tread of someone pacing in the Council chambers, of the chirping of birds in nearby trees beyond the closed windows.

“Sirs,” said Henry in a clear voice, “this House’s original entreaties to Parliament and His Majesty in protest of the then contemplated Stamp Act — entreaties written in astonishing deference, but doubtless from a sense of reason and justice — stand as of this day without the reciprocate courtesy of reply, except in the enactment of this act. We therefore find ourselves in a predicament which will not correct itself, not unless we take corrective actions. Many members of this House are in agreement that stronger and clearer positions must be transmitted to those parties, in order to elicit from them a concern for this matter commensurate with our own, lest Parliament and His Majesty construe our silence for passive concession and submission.

“We propose that this House adopt and forward to those parties, not genuflective beseechments or adulatory objurgations, but pungent
resolves
of our understanding of the origins and practice of British and American liberty, resolves which will frankly alert them to both the error of their presumptions and our determination to preserve that liberty. These resolves, in order to have some consequence and value, ought not to be expressed by us in the role of effusive mendicants applying for the restitution of what has been wrested from them, but with the cogently blunt mettle of men who refuse to be robbed.”

After a pause to take the measure of his listeners, Henry continued. “And what is it we are being robbed of? The recognized and eviternal right
to govern ourselves without Parliamentary interference, meddling, supervision, or usurpation! As another member here has so well explained, the Stamp Act represents not merely the levying of taxes on our goods, but on our
actions
to preserve our property and livelihoods. This law, he explained, will serve to remove from the realm of most of the freemen in this colony, and in our sister colonies, all moral recourse to justice and liberty.

“Surely, some here will counter:
That
is not the intent of this law and those duties. But, nevertheless, wisdom prescribes
that consequence
. And, in the abstract, even should every man in this colony have the miraculous means to pay these duties, the question would remain: Ought they? For if submission is an imperative, then they ought to submit as well to laws that would assign them their diets, arrange their marriages, and regulate their amusements and diversions.” Henry smiled in contemptuous humor. “I am certain that in the vast woodwork of British government, there lurks an army of interlopers and harpies whose notions of ‘due deference’ and an ordered, dutiful, captive society fancy that direction in the matter of governing these colonies, an army that, until now, has been kept in check by its fear of ridicule and by the regular, bracing tonic of reason. The Stamp Act alone will not prompt that army to forget its proper inhibitions. But our submission to it will, and invite it to emerge from that worm-eaten woodwork like locusts to further infest our lives by leave of a Parliamentary prerogative that we failed to challenge.”

Henry held up the page in his hand and shook it as he spoke. “Challenges, sirs, not remonstrances, are in order today! Resolutions, not memorials!” Then he dropped his hand, and gazed up at the ceiling and the cream-colored walls of the chamber. “Look around you, gentlemen. This is
our
forum,
our
legislature. It is a living, honorable thing, this hall, because we may meet in it to conduct our own business.” Then he lowered his head, and looked around him with stern eyes. “But,” he said in a warning, almost menacing voice, “neglect to challenge this law, and I foresee the day when this hall of liberty will become a mausoleum, redolent with the fading echoes of a distant, glorious freedom which from shame you may be reluctant to remember, and of which your children will have no notion, because we failed. Posterity will not look kindly upon us, should we fail. What might happen to this chamber? Well, in one of the many inglorious chapters that comprise the downfall of ancient Rome, it is noted that the Hall of Liberty was made to serve as a barracks for the mercenaries of an emperor. But perhaps events will be merciful, and this place will be burned and leveled
by our wardens to prevent us from ever again presuming to conduct our own business without fear of offense or penalty.”

All in the chamber listened in many varieties of quietude. Some men wished that they had said these things — and also that they had never heard them, for they knew that no answering oration could persuade men to forget what they were hearing. Others were rapt in thought and imagination, and listened to this man with a reverent attention they had never paid a minister, and never would, for Henry spoke, not of heaven, or of God’s grace, or of afterlife damnation or reward, but of the requirements for the salvation and nobility of their souls here on earth.

Among the men who wished they had never heard his words were George Wythe, Richard Bland, and Peyton Randolph, and the word that convinced them that Henry must be opposed and answered was
emperor
. That word made them tremble with fear, lest the Governor hear that it had been spoken, and naturally conclude, just as they did, that it was an allusive reference to His Majesty. Henry had so far said nothing they could disagree with. They believed, however, that Parliament could be reproved without scolding it, and that the king could be advised and corrected without rebuking or offending him. They believed it was possible to revolt without reprimand, risk, or revolution. Besides, they felt offended by Henry’s characterization of their past efforts as “genuflective beseechments” and “adulatory objurgations,” and of themselves as “effusive mendicants.” These slights weighed as much with them as did their practical fears.

Henry held up the page in his hand. “Here are some resolves.” He began pacing before the first tier of benches, sometimes reading from the page, sometimes reciting its contents from memory.

“Whereas, the honorable House of Commons in England have of late drawn into question how far the General Assembly of this colony hath the power to enact laws for laying of taxes and imposing duties payable by the people of this, His Majesty’s most ancient colony; for setting and ascertaining the same to all future times, the House of Burgesses of this present General Assembly have come to the following resolves.”

Henry stopped to gesture once with his other hand in acknowledgement of an obvious fact. “Resolved, that the first adventurers and settlers of this His Majesty’s colony and dominion of Virginia brought with them, and transmitted to their posterity, and all other of His Majesty’s subjects since inhabiting in this His Majesty’s said colony, all the privileges and
immunities that have at any time been held, enjoyed, and possessed by the people of Great Britain.” He paused to allow a protest or contradiction to be voiced by someone on the other side of the chamber. No one rose to speak. He read on.

“Resolved, that by two royal charters, granted by King James the First, the colonists aforesaid are declared entitled to all the privileges, liberties, and immunities of denizens and natural-born subjects, to all intents and purposes, as if they had been abiding and born within the realm of England.”

Again, Henry paused to glance around. No one rose to protest, comment, or contradict him. He exchanged looks with the chief opponents on the other side of the House — Wythe, Bland, Robinson, and Randolph — and saw in their set expressions and frozen eyes that they wished they could protest, but could not.

He went on. “Resolved, that the taxation of the people by themselves, or by persons chosen by themselves to represent them, who can only know what taxes the people are able to bear, and the easiest mode of raising them, and who must themselves be equally affected by such taxes — an arrangement,” interjected Henry, “which is the surest security against burdensome taxation by our own representatives —” then continued to read from the page, “is the distinguishing characteristic of British freedom, and without which the ancient Constitution cannot subsist.”

Henry paused again, and Peyton Randolph, who was nearest him, imagined he saw a devilish smile fleet over the man’s face. “Resolve the fourth, gentlemen: That His Majesty’s liege people of this his most ancient and loyal colony of Virginia, have without interruption enjoyed the precious right of being thus governed
by their own Assembly
in the article of their taxes and internal police, and that the same hath
never
been forfeited or in any other way given up or surrendered, but hath been constantly recognized by the kings and people of Great Britain.”

Henry stopped and glanced around the chamber. “Those, sirs, are the premises of a uniquely extended syllogism. Here is its conclusion.” He snapped up the page and read from it in a precise, impavid voice. “Resolved, that the General Assembly of this colony have the
only
and
sole
exclusive right and power to lay taxes and impositions upon the inhabitants of this colony, and that every attempt to vest such power in any person or persons whatsoever, other than the General Assembly of this colony, has a manifest tendency to destroy British as well as American freedom!”

Henry read the fifth resolve in the manner of an ultimatum, of a royal
decree, of a commandment. It was delivered with the authority of an absolute, unquestioned, and unquestionable moral certainty.

Some burgesses groaned in fear. Others scoffed in anger. Richard Bland muttered to himself, “But only three parts make a syllogism!” Peyton Randolph, who faced the spectators, saw in that crowd too many faces that regarded Henry with an admiration that meant more than mere agreement with him.

Henry’s hand dropped to his side, the lethal page fluttering in the air. He addressed Randolph. “There are two more resolves to be read, sir, but these five are their foundation, and must be adopted before the sixth and seventh can have any meaning or force.” He nodded in courtesy to the chairman. “You may open the floor to contest.” He returned to his seat and sat down. Colonel Munford handed him his hat. Henry put it back on his head with a gesture of finality.

Randolph looked to his allies for some indication from them that they were immediately prepared to argue the resolves back onto that fluttering page and out of men’s minds, to confound Henry’s oratory with eloquence of their own. But all he saw in their expressions was angry, closed-mouth dumbness. He, too, was in a state of speechlessness. Randolph silently cursed Edmund Pendleton, their best speaker, for having gone home.

Not a single truth in the resolves could be denied, thought Randolph. He was even willing to concede the truth contained in the fifth. But it was a dangerous truth, a truth which, if uttered to the Governor, or written in a formal protest, would directly challenge Parliamentary authority. It was a truth that could be extended and applied to
all
Crown authority. It was a truth that contradicted the entire apparatus of the Empire. It was a truth that could bring war, if it were allowed to emerge from the House as a conviction.

Randolph had been Attorney-General for twenty-one years. He remembered that he had served well both Virginia and the king all these years. He remembered now, with some bitterness, his journey to England over ten years ago to represent the colony and this House in the conflict over Governor Dinwiddie’s pistole fee and the legal authority of a royal governor imposing his own land tax. A compromise had been reached, even though then, too, the House’s resolves were rejected by Parliament and the king. Randolph well remembered the contemptuous harangue of the King’s Counsel and Attorney-General, William Murray, now Baron Mansfield and Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, against “this little assembly — this puny
House of Burgesses,” for having “boldly dared to do what the House of Commons never presume to attempt,” that is, to question the king’s right to dispose of his lands as he pleased. The counsel for the House had argued that the burgesses were objecting, not to their sovereign’s actions, but to those of his viceroy. The result of that conflict was that Dinwiddie’s wrist was slapped by the Board of Trade, and the matter was dropped. But Murray upheld the Crown’s right to govern the colonies, whether in the name of the king or of Parliament.

And here was a man who denied that right, who flouted and contradicted centuries-old wisdom! Randolph thought:
I
, who trained for the law at the Middle Temple, was not permitted to argue this colony’s case, and had to hire a councilor! Yet
this
man, this…country boy who may as well have appeared here in a hunting shirt, who had only just recently discovered law books, and had no legal training whatsoever,
this
man presumes to match himself in the Cockpit of the Privy Council against Baron Mansfield, Chief Justice? Why, the prospect was absurd, it did violence to the mind! Those two at bare fists over the king’s pleasure and the Constitution? Murder would be done by one or the other! And, no matter who remained standing, Virginia, and any man here who approved of the fifth resolve, would pay a penalty too terrible to contemplate! No, thought Randolph, resolves we might have — but not
those
resolves!

Some words came to his mind then, words that inadequately described what he had just heard:
keenness
and
vigor
. Then he remembered who had spoken them, and when, and why. He glanced up at Hugh Kenrick, who sat above Henry. Both men — indeed, most of the members on that side of the House — were studying him with a daring air of patient expectation. What an unholy alliance! wondered Randolph.