Hugh Kenrick (26 page)

“That irony gnaws at us every meeting,” said Mathius.

“But it does not prevent us from enjoying one another’s company,” added Claude.

“We are freethinkers, Miltiades,” said Elspeth, “living in a free nation. Yet, even here, we are obliged to maintain the wise tradition of signing our various manifestos ‘Anonymous.’”

“Half the letters one sees in the newspapers are signed with false names,” remarked Abraham. “Most of them Roman.”

“Would a normal man,” asked Tobius, “resort to such a ruse if he did not fear brute reprisal or subtle persecution by those in a position to harness
the engine of coercion?”

Swain put a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “That is why we were so happily startled by the contents of your essay, Miltiades. It was a fresh perspective on an old problem.”

“We have decided to discuss malice at our next meeting,” said Tobius, “and hope you will attend to audit our thoughts on the subject. In a fortnight.”

Hugh looked crestfallen. “I may be away…with my parents,” he said.

“No matter. I am sure that Muir will apprise you of our deliberations.” Tobius rose and tapped the tip of the walking stick on the floor twice. “Gentlemen, let us adjourn this meeting.” He picked up his glass of port.

All the members stood with their glasses. Hugh followed suit.

“Long live Lady Liberty!” said Tobius.

“Long live Lady Liberty!” repeated the members in unison. As Hugh said the words with them, a thrill shot through his being. He tilted his glass up to drink along with the others, and like them tossed his glass into the fireplace.

H
UGH’S INITIATION INTO THE
S
OCIETY OF THE
P
IPPIN WAS AS RIOTOUS
as its members would permit its meetings to become. In an age noted for the excess of its pleasures and vices, the Society was more sedate than most of the clubs that met in London’s innumerable taverns, coffeehouses, ale-houses, and private billets. Its members did not drink themselves under the table, nor gorge themselves to groaning immobility from a table indiscriminately piled with steaming cookery. Its custom was to have a light meal with some moderate drink, and to debate politics, government, foreign affairs, art, literature, agriculture, business, and anything else deemed by the members worthy of sober discussion and sharp thought.

The ending toast was not sedate. It was radical, and risky. “Long live Lady Liberty” was not the same as “Long live the king” or “Long live His Majesty.” The average magistrate, or high court justice, or army officer, had he overheard the toast unaccompanied by a toast to the king, would have instantly concluded that here was a conspiracy to overthrow the government and evict the throne. A toast that consciously omitted esteem for the sovereign was a toast uttered by men who did not esteem him, by men moved by another, insubordinate allegiance. To not wish the sovereign well, even as an afterthought or by rote, was to wish him ill. To neglect wishing liberty and the king well in the same breath was to sire a schism.

To the vessels of the “nomic” wisdom of the time, such a schism was imaginable only in terms of chaos, anarchy, civil war, unchecked rioting, universal destruction, and the reign of Satan. All good things, even liberty, emanated from the sovereign, with Parliament serving as a grand ombudsman. The sovereign was the lynchpin of existence, balancing church and state in both his hands; remove him, and society would crumble. The fate of the Commonwealth in the last century had proven that; was not Oliver Cromwell merely a king without a crown? The average Englishman, regardless of the power of his mind, could no more imagine a polity without a sovereign than he could a world without a God. A sovereign—whether he was elected, an heir, or a conqueror—was both a metaphysical and psychological necessity to him, the head of the body politic
that ensured order and tranquility, even though, more often than not, the literal head was a criminal, wastrel, or functioning idiot. A sovereign was the keystone of society, an icon bathed in an aurora of sanctity and near-divinity, unapproachable except by his leave, even though he might be a dullard who despised Englishmen, as George II at this time was. The king could do no wrong; he was above judgment and prosecution, and so were his emissaries and any institution officially connected with his name. Parliament could do wrong, but was immune from criticism and accountability by all but its members for its multitude of wrongs. Virtually the only redress acknowledged by Parliament was a riot.

It was only the non-royal, non-elected, unenfranchised, unconnected, non-patronage-seeking Englishman who could do wrong and be punished, and there was an abundance of opportunity for him in this respect; the more than one hundred and fifty hanging offences and the swelling number of regulatory, commercial, and tax laws were designed with him in mind, not the sovereign or Parliament. For all that, however, his battle cry, his slogan, his chant, when he took to the streets in riot or immersed himself in a campaign against a new tax or law, remained “Life, Liberty, and Property.”

The omission of a toast to the king, therefore, was not lost on Hugh. Up until then, though he was fascinated with the Society’s members, except for Glorious Swain, he could not say whether or not he liked any of the men. But that omission, the ritual of words that were not said, was more impressive, and carried more weight, than anything else the men had said that evening. He felt a profound admiration for them. They could live for their own purposes, their own reasons, their own ends, without their heads needing to be anointed by the oily fingers of royalty. He shook hands with these men, and watched them leave the room, one by one, his eyes wide with happy esteem for them.

Hugh shook Swain’s hand last. They were alone in the room. “You dared me to mention
Hyperborea
,” said Hugh.

“It was a test,” acknowledged Swain.

“Have they all read it?”

“Yes. Though not all own a copy, and not all prize it to the same degree.”

Hugh sat down in a chair and gazed into the fireplace, lost in thought. The sounds of the tavern were as loud as ever, though still far in the background of his consciousness. He said, “I would say that your ritual—the
aliases, the initiation, the secrecy, and all that—is an exercise in vanity, busy silliness meant to fabricate for yourselves some measure of importance, but I know that they are all men of strong convictions.”

Swain found an extra glass and poured himself another draught of port, then sat down near Hugh. “The dangers are real enough, Mr. Kenrick. Men who risk such dangers are, I believe, entitled to some ritual, silly or no.”

“Yes. I realize that now.” Hugh looked at the pensive countenance of his friend. “Please don’t take offence at what I am about to tell you.”

Swain frowned. “I can’t take offence at what I have not heard.”

“Soon after we met, I wrote my father and asked him if our family owned shares in the Royal African Company, or the South Sea Company.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Because I had learned some time ago that these enterprises are intimately engaged in the slave trade.” Hugh paused. “I did not want our friendship to accommodate or overlook a wrong.”

Swain let a moment pass before he asked, “And what was your father’s answer?”

Hugh shook his head. “The family does not own such shares.”

“And now your conscience is eased?”

Hugh looked perplexed. “I do not believe in a conscience, Mr. Swain. It’s just that…I don’t wish you to think that I am making an exception for you.” He paused again, and struggled to find the words. “I no more patronize you, than you me.”

Swain looked away from Hugh, then faced him again. His eyes were hard with anger, and the anger tinged his words. “You ought to some time journey to Bristol, young sir, or Liverpool, and contemplate the cargo ships sitting at anchor in their harbors, and listen for the wails and moans and cries coming from below their stinking decks, and then question your rejection of conscience. I have, many times, and asked myself what great power is required to eradicate the evil. They are kin, in a manner of speaking, suffering and dying on those ships, as fully capable of being what I am, yet so distant in everything that matters to me. Although they are strangers in my realm, I know that should I raise a finger in protest, I should soon join them, and I would shortly perish, if not from the misery, then by my own hand, like the Jews of York on the occasion of Richard the First’s coronation.” Swain paused and shook his head. “Do not think that because I am virtually free, the matter does not roast on the turning spit of my mind. But—I have yet no answer, no solution, no argument that would make the
blind see. If I were to sacrifice myself by protesting on their behalf, I would sacrifice a reproach to the institution. ‘The Scotsman, the Jew, the Irishman, the Spaniard, the Frenchman, and even the Chinaman, have all exploded our venomous presumptions about them,’ the defenders of slavery could say. ‘But where is the Negro who contradicts our belief that his race is a base, witless, soulless breed?’” Swain slapped a hand over his heart. “Well, here he is, sirs, and I am he.” Swain sighed. “Beyond that, well, it is the only matter in which I confess helplessness.”

“Can nothing be done for those people?” asked Hugh.

Swain shrugged. “No. Not until all England becomes a chapter of our Society. And that would leave Spain and France.” He shook his head again, and smiled a little. “How can anything be done for them, sir, when we Englishmen are ‘rudely stamped, unfinished, and scarce half made up,’ in regard to our own liberty? We are a nation of piecemeal bondsmen, who have not yet espied perfect freedom.” He noticed a fleeting grin on Hugh’s face. “What amuses you?”

Hugh briefly explained his own quotation from
Richard the Third
to Hulton. Swain’s dour expression made room for a chuckle. “We have much in common, my friend, even in the style of our thinking.”

After a moment, Hugh asked, “And if my family had shares…would you still speak to me?”

Swain shook his head. “As you do not believe in a conscience, I do not charge sons with the sins of their fathers. I know that your family would not own those shares for long, once you had a say in the matter.” He paused. “Thank you for being honest with me, Mr. Kenrick.” He gestured to the table. “I will tell you what decided me to accept the invitation of the Society—more than their esteem for me, more than the prospect of enjoying the company of my equals.”

“What?”

“Rum.”

“Rum?”

“The Society has, from its earliest days, abstained from it. Rum, whether of English or French origin, comes from the sugar islands of the Indies, whose plantations employ slaves almost exclusively, except for convicts sentenced there for servitude, which they usually do not survive. Jamaica and Barbados are our courts’ first choice of slow execution. The places have such a bad reputation that prisoners are known to have begged to be hanged instead, or have killed themselves, rather than be transported
to the Indies. The slaves do not fare much better. The weather and the work consume them like a glutton eating fistfuls of black currants. Of course, there are many other things of slave origin that the Society could abstain from—sugar itself, and tobacco, coffee, the meanest cloths, and perhaps even tea—but then we should starve ourselves. So the symbol of protest became rum, the warmest, sweetest beverage we know.”

“I have finished the play, milord.”

Hugh and Glorious Swain turned in their chairs to see Hulton standing at the entrance to the room. Hugh rose. “I must go now, Mr. Swain. But we should meet again, before I leave for the holidays.”

Swain stood up. “Yes, my friend. Leave word with Mrs. Petty, and we can arrange a rendezvous. I stop by here several times a week.”

“Good night, my friend,” said Hugh, shaking Swain’s hand again. “And thank you for your sponsorship.” He paused to grin at the man. “When you were admitted, surely it could not have been Agnes Petty who completed your tripos!”

“No,” laughed Swain, “it was Mrs. Petty herself. She was pried from my lap only with great difficulty by my brothers! Never again!”

And they parted.

On their way back to Windridge Court, Hugh and Hulton were silent for a while. The light of Hulton’s lantern revealed some solitary snowflakes whirling in the air before them. Then Hugh said, “It’s a wonderful thing, Hulton, to feel this way about some fellow men. It allows one to move ahead with one’s life without the brake of a cloying, melancholy disgust for the others.”

“Yes, milord,” replied Hulton. “I saw your friends leave by way of the tavern. They seemed like thoughtful gentlemen.”

“They are. How did you find the play?”

“Illuminating, milord. Richard the Third was a right bastard, and seemed to have the best lines, which were instructive. I would not have wanted to be in service in his household. I might not have survived the employment.”

Hugh laughed, and slapped the butler on the back.

Hulton seemed to remember what he had said, and added, in a near-whisper, “Is it permitted to refer to a late king as a bastard, milord?”

“Hulton, it is right to call a late or living king anything—or nothing at all!”

“Yes, milord,” replied Hulton, who felt the tingling, dangerous thrill of being willing to lie for his master at any time, for any reason.

H
UGH REPEATED THE LIE IN ANSWER TO HIS UNCLE’S CASUAL QUERY
over breakfast the next morning. His personal affairs, he reasoned, should be of no concern to his uncle, especially if they concerned the Society of the Pippin; he knew that his honesty would be used by his uncle as a weapon against him. He did not feel morally bound to tell the Earl that particular truth. So he lied as casually as his uncle had pried, and listened with indifference to the mild rebuke the Earl had voiced over the insult to Sir Henoch Pannell.

His indifference to his uncle’s concern allowed him to reply: “I don’t think that anyone raised to the petit peerage—such as Sir Henoch—ought to be permitted to sit in the Commons. He ought to be made to sit with his alleged peers, or with the non-voting peers, and to endure their solicitous sneers and cold courtesy.”