Empire (32 page)

H
ugh Kenrick returned to Meum Hall. He had not liked leaving it for so long a period, and so managed it from Williamsburg with all the attention to detail he exhibited when he inspected his fields.

For a while after his return, however, he was barely aware of Meum Hall, barely aware of his staff as they went about their duties. It was not until he had completed every task associated with the Stamp Act resolves — posting Barret’s copies of the resolves to Talbot and Easley in Philadelphia and copies to his father and Dogmael Jones in England, bidding Captain Ramshaw a safe voyage on the S
parrowhawk
when it left Caxton and sailed back down the York River, and finishing his transcriptions of the key speeches in the House — that he felt free to devote his full attention to Meum Hall. And it was only then, when he stopped to rest for a moment before moving on to the next task, and realized that there was no more to do, that he felt the odd feeling that he was in a strange and alien place. He emerged from his obsession to wonder who was the Hugh Kenrick who lived here and commanded the staff.

He dismissed the feeling, attributing it to tiredness, and inspected Meum Hall from top to bottom, from the water tower to Hove Stream. The gutters along the roof had been cleaned, and the branches of the trees near them trimmed. The lead pipes to the kitchen and some of the rooms in the great house from the water tower had been installed and tested, and basins for them built and put in place. The water tower itself was now virtually leak-free.

In the fields, the tobacco was nearly a foot high, the rye and wheat were nearly ready to be cradled, the corn and oats were coming up, and the patch crops of hemp and flax were doing well. Henry Zouch had almost completed the order for bricks for the merchant’s warehouse near Richmond; several neat piles of them lined the sides of the brickyard. The conduit had been repaired and assembled, and sat in the fields waiting to be used; the ground was still damp from the most recent rain.

Meum Hall was in better condition than he had expected. Every order and instruction he had given from afar had been carried out. He began the long day of inspection with the confidence that, by day’s end, he would reclaim his sense of ownership of the place. But before Mrs. Chance served him his favorite meal in the supper room that evening, he still felt that something was missing. He felt uneasy about himself, and, at the same time, at peace. He remembered now that the staff and tenants had welcomed him back with some enthusiasm; it was only now that he felt touched by the reception. They had all heard that he played an important role in some great event in the General Assembly; he did not know that they had observed his obsession, and were refraining from asking him questions about the session until they felt it was proper to ask them.

He happened to glance up from the supper table at the group portrait of his family on the wall, and for a moment did not recognize his father, mother, sister, and their servants. In anger with the phenomenon, he pounded the table once with a fist. This should not be, he thought. What is wrong with me?

He went to the library to unpack the crate of books, clothing, and other things that had arrived before he journeyed to Piney Slash to see Patrick Henry. He noticed only now that the crate was gone. He rang for Spears, his valet, and asked him for an explanation. Spears replied that the books had been put up on the shelves, the clothing added to the wardrobe and clothes press, and the plate and silverware stocked in the kitchen.

Hugh smiled in apology. “Thank you, Spears. You will please excuse my…lapse in memory. Part of me, it seems, is still in Williamsburg.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the valet. “We had all come to that conclusion.”

“Is it so noticeable?”

Spears nodded. “We would not have said so to you, sir, but we will acknowledge it. I own that we had occasion to remark among ourselves on your…condition.” After a brief pause, he added, “We had heard that you made a great victory in the Assembly, sir, and were wondering why you were so, well, angry.”

“Angry?” laughed Hugh. “Did I seem that? Well, I can assure you, I was not. I am very pleased with the state of things here. My compliments, Spears.”

“Thank you, sir.”

It was only a little after nine in the evening, but Hugh said, “I think I shall retire early tonight. Perhaps after a good night’s rest, that other part
of me will have come home by morning.” Then, he thought, he would awaken refreshed and in full possession of himself and of Meum Hall. “Rouse me at your own peril, Spears.”

The valet grinned. “As you wish, sir.”

But Hugh opened his eyes the next morning just after dawn, only a little later than his regular hour. He was up before even Spears, and had fixed himself some coffee in the kitchen before Mrs. Chance appeared. The rest had helped, but he still felt uneasy.

That morning, while he was busy rearranging the business on his desk, and putting his new books in their proper places on the shelves, Thomas Reisdale, the attorney and vestryman, called. He had been away seeing clients in Norfolk and Elizabeth City across the James River the last two weeks, and unable to attend the House’s deliberations. “Forgive me for intruding, Mr. Kenrick,” he said, “but I am informed that I have missed some epochal event. I regret now having so many prosperous clients who take up my time. What happened?”

Hugh answered by simply handing the attorney a copy of the printed resolves. Reisdale read them and emitted a slow gasp. He glanced at his host with new interest. “Oh, my! This is
provocative
!” He frowned. “And
you
had a part in this, sir?”

Hugh nodded. “They are Mr. Henry’s resolutions, though only the first four were adopted by the House, and those four with great reluctance.”

Reisdale stared at Hugh for a moment. “Why…the chamber must have been filled with the smoke of volleys from both sides!” He shook his head in confusion. “Were there so many of you that even the four had a chance to pass?”

Hugh briefly described the last two days of the session.

Reisdale grunted in appreciation. He held up the broadside and pointed to the resolves. “These read as though they might have been composed by Mr. Bland.”

Hugh said, “Colonel Bland was a chief and very vocal opponent, Mr. Reisdale. I must say that I am disappointed that he did not endorse them.” He paused. “Copies of those resolves are now on their way to every colony and even to England.” He smiled. “Mr. Barret did us the service. He was there.”

Reisdale sighed. “I am surprised that the good Colonel opposed these. They are very much in his style.”

Hugh shrugged. “He advised caution,” he remarked. “But there is
always a time when it is advisable to throw it to the winds.”

“That you have done,” said Reisdale. “I shall write Mr. Bland about this.” He rose to leave. “I must study these resolves. When these reach England, we shall never hear the end of it!”

Hugh looked grave. “Or nothing at all.”

Some time after Reisdale left, Hugh sat at his desk and reread his transcriptions to make certain he had not missed anything. Later, he would assign Mr. Beecroft the task of copying the speeches so that they could be sent to his father and Dogmael Jones. He twirled his brass top as he read; its hum seemed to soothe his nerves.

Then a remark of Reisdale’s came to mind, about the volleys from both sides of the House. It caused him to look up at his sketch of Reverdy Brune, and recall something he had said to her long ago, about the gorget of his mind.
“There are battles of the intellect to be fought, Reverdy,”
he said to her that precious day,
“for king, country, and liberty…. A mind can accrue honor, too, and carry its own colors…. I am an ensign in our country’s most important standing army…. ”
A battle had indeed been fought over the course of those days in the House, he thought. And while I was an ensign in that conflict, Mr. Henry was our captain.

Even John Ramshaw, when he stopped by Meum Hall on his way to the
Sparrowhawk
, had acknowledged the violence of the conflict, and remarked, “It was not a soldier’s wind that sailed your resolves through, my lad. You were beating to windward all the time you were taking and giving shot, and hazarding a wreck close to some killer rocks.”

Hugh found himself wishing that his friend Roger Tallmadge was here, so he could ask him what he felt after a battle, and if it was natural for a man to feel drained and lifeless, even in victory. Because, he thought, while he was engaged in that battle, he had felt exaltation.

Then a smile began to grow on Hugh’s mouth as he identified the thing that was troubling him:
I felt then that I had not only been defending an important hill, but attacking it, as well, and that the struggle was terrific, and merciless, and deafening, one side crashing repeatedly against the ramparts and parapets of the other, and thrown back. It was a steep slope to charge up, and a precarious one to hold, but both sides were determined, fearless, and courageous, and they thought it would never cease…. The enemy?
wondered Hugh.
He was nameless, faceless, almost irrelevant…. ”

Hugh’s completed smile was one of enlightened irony and contentment. It is no wonder you are tired, he thought. You were fighting yourself.
And you were victorious.

His eyes wandered back to the picture of Reverdy Brune.
But I know what is missing here,
he thought.
A pair of lonely, grateful, hungry arms holding me to her, and my cheek resting on her scented hair…. That special soldier’s homecoming, that intangible recognition of valor that only a woman can bestow….

Hugh shut his eyes against the longing. Well, he thought, pushing himself away from his desk. Enough of that. It is early in the day, and there are things to be done.

* * *

Jack Frake was not troubled. He was in the fields today, as usual, appraising his own crops. But he turned in his saddle now and then to look at the great house of Morland in the distance, and then let his sight roam over the expanse of fields that spread just south of it. Even though he knew that none of it had ever been in jeopardy, he felt now that somehow a great cloud of doubt and uncertainty was lifted from over it. He felt somehow released from that doubt and uncertainty, freer than ever before. The great event in Williamsburg had happened. He had been fortunate enough to witness it. He would have believed it, even had he not witnessed it. A copy of the resolves lay on his desk in the library.

Men were emerging from the caves of servitude, he thought; some boldly, some tentatively, still others darting back at the first touch of sunlight on their foreheads. He wondered for a moment where he had heard that analogy, other than in Redmagne’s
Hyperborea
. Oh, yes! he recalled; during that long-forgotten encounter with Plato’s
Republic
, when he was a youth being tutored in the very house he now owned. Yes: Men were emerging from those caves to see with their own eyes; beginning to doubt the necessity of guardians and messengers to tell them what the upper-world was and meant; beginning to question the assumption that such knowledge was impossible to them, or too special to acquire by their own efforts; beginning to suspect that the intermediaries and guardians were hostile obstacles who had a powerful interest in keeping the cave-dwellers ignorant, dependent on them, and chained to their tasks.

Jack Frake had never dwelt in those caves; he knew of them only as an external observer. He had always viewed it as a tragic paradox that other men remained in them, either from ignorance or indifference, or by educated
choice. He was glad, however, that he had known some men who were much like himself, men who had never needed to ascend the darkened, jagged, perilous heights to reach the light that shone through the entrances to the caves, men who had refused to allow themselves to be herded at the birth of their consciousnesses to the depths of those caves. Patrick Henry was certainly one of those men, he thought. And Hugh Kenrick.

He heard the jingle of reins and the thud of hooves near him, and turned to see John Proudlocks approach and ride up to his side. And this man, he added.

“You are looking…philosophical, Jack,” said the Indian, “when you should be concerned about the corn.” He waved a hand to indicate the broad square of cornstalks before them. “Worms and birds have been fattening themselves on this crop. I do not know why they are so…numerous, this year. Our people pick off the worms and chase off the birds, but it is useless. The…vermin always return.”

“I know,” said Jack. “This year, we will be lucky to harvest enough fodder for ourselves.” In the past, Morland had been able to sell about half its corn crop to merchants and ship captains for resale to farmers and planters throughout the Tidewater.

After a moment, Proudlocks asked, “What were you thinking?” He was intimate enough with his friend’s manner and bearing that he knew that the corn crop had not been on Jack’s mind.

Jack smiled. “How wonderful this place is, John, now that what must be said has been said.” He related his thoughts on the caves to Proudlocks, who listened with great interest.

Proudlocks nodded sagely when Jack had finished. “Oh? Plato and his guardians and philosopher-kings? I have read that parable. It was quite silly, and without purpose.” He pointed to the sky. “There is the sun,” he said, “and there is the house, and the fields, and Mr. Hurry on his horse, and the river beyond. Where is the messenger to tell me those things?” He pointed to his eyes and forehead, wagging a finger a few times to stress that he made no distinction between them. “Here. They are truth-tellers, not tale-tellers of shadows and forms, or philosopher-kings who deal false cards to their subjects.” He shrugged. “
They
are…more little men, that is all.” He paused. “What happened in the Assembly — that is the beginning of a march from the caves, as you say, is it not?”

Jack shook his head. “For others,” he said. “They have not yet begun their march. They are only just gathering at the entrance, so to speak.”