Hugh Kenrick (13 page)

Drury Trantham, the discoverer of Hyperborea, a land of enchanting, seductive freedom—a “kingdom of the just”; Trantham, the outsider who won the love of Circe, the beautiful daughter of the land’s wisest sage, and who became the best friend of his jealous rival for her affections; Trantham, who sailed with his crew on
The Greyhound
to fight an armada of pirates who had chanced near the unchartered straits that led to
Hyperborea
; Trantham, the laughing, defiant captain, who ordered his crippled, flaming ship to sail directly into the pirate chief’s flagship, certain that he would sink the enemy only at the price of his own death; Trantham, who died happily with the rest of his crew, because he had seen something that he had always searched for, proof of his convictions; Trantham, who died to save Circe and preserve the secret of
Hyperborea
’s existence.

Hyperborea
governed the course of his required reading. In his uncle’s library were Robert Filmer’s
Patriarcha
, Bishop Sherlock’s works, Richard Allestree’s
The Whole Duty of Man
, and Samuel Parker’s
Discourses of Ecclesiastical Polity
—all rendered superfluous by
Hyperborea
. In his father’s library there was James Tyrrell’s
Patriarcha non Monarcha
, Sidney’s
Discourses Concerning Government
, and all of John Locke’s works—and Hugh thought he saw some connection between the novel and the philosophy he found in these works. He could not decide whether the philosophy inspired the novel, or the same vision of the novel had inspired the philosophers, long before the author of
Hyperborea
had been born. He could not help but think that some notion of Drury Trantham had existed in the minds of these men, and that their thoughts of the right political conditions friendly to that hero were the consequences of that notion. Yet, even though all these works appealed to him—and he could understand only a small portion
of them—Hugh sensed that something was missing. Drury Trantham answered the best of them, and the worst. And in Drury Trantham lay the answer to that missing thing.

*  *  *

One day he startled Mr. Rittles with the question: “Why cannot moral questions be posed with the same precision as a mathematical equation, so that given
x
and
y, z
is the only possible answer?”

The tutor scratched his peruke, at a loss to answer. He had never heard the question posed before; and it had been asked by a mere boy. Finally, he ventured a reply, hoping that it did not precipitate another query. “Because many such questions do not require precise answers. Theology and the Scriptures do not invite reasoned inquiry. And moral philosophy only seems to.”

“No, they don’t,” remarked Hugh. “But I believe they should.”

Another time, in the middle of a dancing master’s class, after the instructor had put the children through a strict rehearsal of gavottes and minuets, Hugh asked, “Sir, are there no dances for couples?” All the other children gaped at him, except Reverdy Brune, who smiled in the secret knowledge that Hugh had preferred her as a partner in dances that called for many partners, making sure that all their dances began and ended with her.

“Those are for plain folk, milord,” answered the tutor, who did not know whether to be astounded or angry. “Gentlemen and ladies do not indulge in such…gross amusements,” he added. “Dancing is a social grace, milord, and not a vehicle for personal diversion.”

“It can be both,” answered Hugh in a tone unconscious of its finality.

The dancing master did not pursue the subject, but peevishly instructed his students in the moves of a new country-dance.

Hugh and Roger Tallmadge had often donned stable boys’ clothes and stolen down into the village to be among people who demanded nothing of them, to see how they lived and hear what they thought. Their most enjoyable times were when they would sit on the edge of a wedding party or other celebration, and watch the villagers dance to simple tunes played on flutes and fiddles. They felt more warmth and companionship in these gatherings than in the regal, stilted balls held in the Earl’s home. “The plain folk in the village seem to have more fun,” thought Hugh, “dancing with
one another, instead of with everyone.”

Westcott painted the family as a group first, then the individual members: Hugh and his sister, Alice, together and separately; the Baron and Baroness, together and separately; and the Earl. Hugh expressed interest in the art of portraiture, and often sat quietly on a stool to watch Westcott at work.

In early fall, Westcott completed his commission. Hugh’s portrait was the last canvas he finished. Westcott had managed to mute the piercing green eyes, but they were still compelling. He was not at all certain that this particular canvas would be approved. But, to his relief, Hugh’s parents were delighted with the portrait.

It depicted the boy sitting at his desk, the plaque on the wall above him, the top resting to the side of an open book, the first volume of
Hyperborea
. The second volume sat atop a pile of books elsewhere on the desk, its title clearly visible. Hugh’s face was lit by a sconce on the wall and a candle on the desk. Because of Westcott’s trouble with the eyes, they did not return the glance of the viewer, as was a common practice then, but rose above and beyond the viewer’s, giving the face a curious uplifted, inward, and distant expression, as though the boy had been disturbed in the middle of a thought.

Much to Westcott’s surprise, the Baron patted him on the back when he saw the finished portrait. “That’s our Hugh!” he remarked. “Well done, sir.” And the Baroness gave him a gracious smile of gratitude.

The portraits were hung on the walls. The Earl’s was put in the dining room, opposite the Earl’s usual place at the head of the table, in order that he could see it. The Baroness’s went into the Baron’s study, and the Baron’s into the breakfast room. Hugh’s portrait was also hung in the Baron’s study. “I wish to mark the difference over time,” he told his wife.

Basil Kenrick did not like Hugh’s portrait, even though he agreed to pay for it. He was glad that he would not need to see it often. The animated, pensive face of the boy confirmed his certainty that the boy was not material for rule—neither to rule, nor to be ruled. “There’s no dignity in it,” he remarked to his brother. “Looks as though he might become a higgler of ideas, or a mere scrivener. What’s that blasted book he’s reading? I can’t make out the title.”

“
Hyperborea
,” answered Garnet Kenrick.

The Earl looked at his brother sharply. “A blasphemous, seditious mass of verbiage!” he spat, his face reddening. “How did he come to acquire it?”

“I gave it to him,” replied Garnet Kenrick with a slight shrug of his shoulders. He smiled. “How would you know so much about it, Basil—unless you had committed the sin of reading it?”

“I was told about it by some persons in Lords who had the distasteful, lawful chore of reading it and recommending its suppression.”

“Poor souls. Well, you must own that Hugh will be the wiser for having read it himself. You will remain ignorant of its true potency for sedition.”

Basil Kenrick scoffed. “Mark my words, dear brother: That book will warp his already addled brain! See here!” he added, wagging his finger, “I want no Whig puppies raised in this house! One word of compassion for the mob from him, and I’ll brand his tongue!”

“The Whigs dislike the book as much as you do, Basil,” sighed the Baron. “And I can’t imagine Hugh expressing much sympathy for any mob.” He chuckled. “But, then, of course, I have read the book, too, and must have a warped mind myself. Whatever I have to say is the spittle of a madman.”

“Don’t be flippant,” replied the Earl. “you’re an adult, and know better than to succumb to the allure of such trash. Does he know that it was written by an executed criminal?”

“No. I don’t think it would matter if he did. Though I believe that if he did know, he would wonder why the fellow was hanged, and not awarded a royal pension.”

The Earl sniffed.

The Baron smiled and said, “After all, dear brother, who are we to judge criminals and malcontents? If it happened that a member of the Lobster Pots penned a treatise on moral philosophy, I should probably subscribe to its publication.”

The family portrait was hung on the dining room wall opposite the Earl’s. Westcott was perceptive enough to feel the tension in the family, and to note that Hugh Kenrick was disliked by his uncle and that there existed a measure of coldness between the boy’s parents and the Earl. Westcott had certainly heard of the affair round the Duke of Cumberland, and was certain that this was the reason for the tension. Because it was the Earl’s commission, Westcott composed the group portrait so that the figure of Hugh was on the far right of the tableau, almost but not quite on the fringe of it. He chose a standard setting, the breakfast room in the orangery, and assembled the family around an oval table. The Earl sat prominently in the middle foreground; the Baron and Baroness sat to the side, little Alice, a
look of sweet amazement on her face, on her mother’s lap. Hugh stood at the edge of the table, looking bored but deferential. Above the group was the rendering of the first Hugh Kenrick, laying waste to a town so many centuries ago.

*  *  *

The Kenricks journeyed to London that fall, for both business and social reasons. Hugh was taken to many balls and concerts, and immersed in the haute culture of the times. He developed an appreciation for Gluck’s ballet
Don Juan
, and discovered Vivaldi’s “Echo” Concerto for Two Violins, the Concerto for Four Violins, and the Double Concerto.

He liked the “Echo” Concerto so much that he persuaded his father to pay the musicians to perform it again after the theater had emptied of the other patrons. The novelty of the answering, off-stage violin appealed to him for a reason he did not know. He sat forward, his arms crossed on the back of the seat in front of him, his chin resting on his wrists, his fingers moving in time with the melody. His face was set in a melancholy his parents had never seen in him before. They could not decide whether it was joy or loneliness.

“N
OW
I
SHALL HAVE NO MORE PEACE
,”
LAMENTED GEORGE
II
ON
the death of Henry Pelham, First Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer, in March of 1754. Pelham, brother of the Duke of Newcastle, succeeded Robert Walpole in the “prime ministership,” and for eight years channeled his energies into balancing the budget, trimming the army and navy, and reducing the land tax. The king was to be proven right. Pelham’s passing inaugurated a political maelstrom that would last for decades between Tories, New Whigs, and Old Whigs—and between England and the rest of the world.

And in the following May, at Great Meadows Run in the wilds of Pennsylvania, young George Washington and a band of Virginians fired on a contingent of breakfasting French soldiers camped in a soggy bower of the forest and, after a short fight, compelled the survivors to surrender. On July 4, at Fort Necessity, Washington himself was obliged to surrender to a larger force of French, whose officer tricked him into signing a confession of murder before allowing him and his men to leave “with honor.” The French reasoned that as a state of war did not officially exist, Washington’s action in May was morally and diplomatically reprehensible. Washington did not realize that he had signed such a confession, which was written in French, until he reached Williamsburg to report to Lieutenant Governor Robert Dinwiddie, the man who had sent him on the “preemptive” expedition.

These brief clashes were to ignite a fuse of events that would ultimately lead to the beginning of the Seven Years’ War, officially declared in May of 1756 and fought in theaters ranging from Europe to India. “The volley fired by a young Virginian in the backwoods of America set the world on fire,” wrote Horace Walpole. It was to be the last struggle between the French and British for hegemony in North America. Pelham’s death also signaled the rise of William Pitt, the Great Commoner, later Earl of Chatham, who would administer eventual victory.

Other events served to bridge the fuse and the actual explosion. Charles-Louis de Secondat, formerly Baron de Montesquieu, and intellectual stepfather to political theorist Edmund Burke, died in February, 1755.
He was England’s favorite Frenchman, for he praised that country’s political institutions.
The Dictionary of the English Language
, compiled by critic, essayist, and poet Samuel Johnson, was published in April of that year, after a nine-year effort. Young Jean-Jacques Rousseau published his first major work,
Discourse on Inequality.
Francis Hutcheson’s
System of Moral Philosophy,
published posthumously that year, endorsed the tenets of David Hume’s earlier
Treatise of Human Nature
and
Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding
; these three works derogated reason and posited the supremacy of “passion” in human action and values, and helped to put a seal of respectability on the cynicism, skepticism, and “sentimentality” that were the age’s growing hallmarks. In Prussia, young Immanuel Kant published a paper on the formation of the solar system, proffering a theory that foreshadowed Pierre Laplace’s, but his true fame lay in the future, in philosophy, not science. His series of
Critiques
would together comprise a body of philosophy for which Hume’s and Hutcheson’s would rank as mere advance valets. In Russia, Moscow University was founded to educate the young nobles. And in Austria, young Franz Joseph Haydn was busy perfecting the format of the symphony. But France, even though it was more politically oppressive than England, and whose freethinkers were more at jeopardy—often at peril—than their brethren in liberal Albion, remained the intellectual fountainhead of Europe.

The year 1755 was riven by great earthquakes. Thousands died when Quito was leveled in April. Forty thousand souls perished that June in Kaschan, northern Persia. Lisbon would be destroyed in November and fifty thousand of its inhabitants lost. Málaga in Spain and Fez in Morocco would be flattened by the same eight-minute quake, whose shocks were felt as far away as Scotland.

Englishmen were stunned when news arrived in late August of Major General Edward Braddock’s death and defeat that July in Pennsylvania, not far from Great Meadows Run. Braddock, spending a small portion of the imperial treasury, was dispatched to accomplish what Washington, scantily paid and ill-supported by contentious colonial legislatures, could not: the capture of Fort Duquesne and the eviction of the French. It was especially galling for two reasons: first, that a force of nearly fifteen hundred regulars, supported by colonial militia, was defeated within shouting distance of Fort Duquesne by a much smaller force of very irregular French and Indians, who fought from behind trees and rocks; and second, the circulating rumors of the outrageous conduct of the British regulars, many of whom
ran and even fired in panic on their own ranks. Almost a thousand English lives were lost to the victorious, nearly unscathed French and screaming, scalping Indians. Braddock was the first British general to campaign in North America. It was not an auspicious debut of British military prowess.

In England, and in the finer households in the colonies, gentlemen and ladies could not decide what was more contemptible: Was it the cowardice of the French, who in North America did not fight in the customary and honorable parade ground manner and tactics of Continental Europe, but behaved like cut-throats, footpads, and highwaymen? Or was it the disgraceful funk of the surviving regulars, who survived because they ran? Like many aristocrats in England who read accounts of the fiasco in the newspapers, the Earl and Baron of Danvers repeated in astonishment to each other, without knowing it, Braddock’s dying words: “Who would have thought of it?” Publicly, no one questioned Braddock’s generalship, even though, privately, some politicians and military men reflected that with a little imaginative daring—an asset not possessed by the late Edward Braddock—perhaps with a massed bayonet charge supported by merciless artillery, the French and Indians could have been swept from the woods, Fort Duquesne captured, the French evicted from the Ohio Valley, and, for all practical purposes, that theater of the Seven Years’ War closed. Publicly, no one questioned Braddock’s personal selection for the task by the Duke of Cumberland; privately, many who knew Cumberland said that he had picked his “peer in wit,” and so no better outcome could have been expected.

In ominous irony, two men associated with the debacle were colonials: Benjamin Franklin and George Washington. Franklin, ever the entrepreneur, had supplied Braddock with his wagons and horses; most of these were lost in the disaster, together with all the artillery, the commander’s papers, and ¢25,000 in specie. Franklin had, the previous spring, orchestrated the Albany Congress, sponsored by the Board of Trade in London, first to woo the Iroquois from the French—unsuccessfully, as it turned out—and then to study the feasibility of a union of the colonies as an official body that would complement Parliament and work with it for the good of all concerned. Many of the colonial legislatures vetoed the idea or would not even debate it. Franklin’s own Pennsylvania rejected the notion. The idea came to naught. It was considered much too radical a solution to the incipient friction between the colonies and the home government. But the conduct of the war, and the bill ultimately presented to the colonies by the
Crown in the form of new taxes and regulations for its successful conclusion, would later precipitate congresses far less benign than the Albany, for many of the more astute colonials would begin to wonder for whose sake and benefit the war was being fought.

Colonel Washington, as a volunteer on Braddock’s staff, did his best to rally those regulars and colonials who did not panic. He rode from company to company, swearing as heartily as a drill sergeant over the din of volleys, his coat plucked to pieces by musket balls and two mounts shot from beneath him. Brave but foolhardy British officers and stalwart rank and file fell like ninepins around him during the two-hour fight. Washington was largely responsible for extracting the survivors—stalwart and scurrying alike—from the deadly ambuscade. He buried Braddock’s body in an unmarked grave to prevent its abuse by the Indians. Following his earlier surrender at Fort Necessity, it was his second humiliating defeat in a year. He did not know it, but the tonic of these bone-chilling experiences would serve to make him a wise and patient general in the decades to come.

*  *  *

The gravity of these events was lost on Hugh Kenrick. 1755 was an uneventful year for him, until his father called him into his study one late summer afternoon to inform him that he was to attend Dr. James Comyn’s School for Gentlemen, in London, near Westminster. Hugh was now fourteen.

Garnet Kenrick decided to entrust his son’s further education to this reputable academy for two reasons: to subject Hugh to a stricter regimen of study than the Tallmadge tutors could impose, with special emphasis on commerce, law, accounts, and mathematics; and to remove the boy from his uncle’s glowering displeasure. Whole seasons, he reasoned, would pass before Hugh returned home for the holidays, and the passage of time would serve to ameliorate his brother’s fuming hostility. Also, he wished to see Hugh avail himself of the freedom of a cosmopolitan city; he was curious to see what effect exposure to more demanding tutors and to life in London would have on his son’s burgeoning mind.

He grinned wryly when, after he broke the news, Hugh’s eyes lit up in excitement. “Dr. Comyn was a classmate of mine at Oxford,” he explained. “I have seen him recently and exchanged several letters with him about you. He is much impressed with your abilities, and is eager to make your
acquaintance.” The Baron paused. “You must promise me that you will do nothing that would bring disgrace to this family. The city is rich in temptations and distractions.”

“I promise,” replied Hugh.

“Your mother and I will accompany you and see that you are installed in our house. We will travel early in September and partake of the fall society for a week or so. When we leave, Mr. Worley will be responsible for you. Hulton will valet for you. You will spend time at Mr. Worley’s business, working with his clerks and, well, as you once desired, getting your hands dirty in all sorts of chores. And you will breakfast and dine with him and his family more often than you will at our house there.”

“What subjects will I encounter?” asked Hugh.

“More Latin and Greek, of course. Fencing—you are adept at the art, so Mr. Tallmadge’s master tells me, but Dr. Comyn has the instructor in his employ who taught that same tutor. Dancing—you are deficient in that art, but, again, Dr. Comyn has an excellent master at hand. French—that will cost me extra, but I believe you will profit from strict lessons. Drawing, merchants accounts, mathematics, Euclid, algebra, Roman and Greek history, modern history, Milton, Pope, geography, an introduction to navigation—well, quite a busy curriculum, Hugh. You will be occupied.” The Baron paused. “The school is within walking distance of the house. About fifty other boys—mostly sons of gentry—also attend.” The Baron paused. “It is not Eton, nor Harrow. It is a school, I believe, that will be more to your liking.”

*  *  *

To Roger Tallmadge, during a noon-time break from instruction, Hugh said, “I am going to London, to attend an academy.”

Roger looked dismayed, almost desolate. “What good luck!” he said instead. “When do you leave?”

“Next month. I shall come home for Christmas and Twelfth Night.”

“It must be very expensive.”

“My father says almost twenty guineas a year. It would be more if I boarded at the school itself.”

“We went to London once, but it was mostly to see father’s associates.”

“I’ll write you about the things I do and see.”

“Yes! Tell me about the menagerie at the Tower. I’ve heard it has an
elephant and a tiger. And then there’s London Bridge! And the king!”

“And Westminster Bridge. I’ve heard it is a beautiful thing to see. And the Observatory.”

The boys walked silently for a while. Then Roger said, “Father says there is to be another war with the French and the Prussians. My brother Francis wants Father to get him into the army.”

Hugh chuckled. “That would be a good place for Francis. He is not a diligent student. Perhaps the army will instill a quantum of wisdom in him.”

“You would make a wonderful officer, Hugh.”

Hugh laughed. “I don’t think the army would welcome me, no matter how much my father paid for a commission.”

“I would like to try the army, just to see what it’s like. Did you know that the Duke of Cumberland had his own company of boys to command when he was only ten? And he’s an authority on all the armies’ uniforms and customs and battles.”

To this, Hugh had nothing to say. He was deep in thought.

They stopped by a birch tree on the outskirts of the landscaped grounds. Beyond were the green, hedged planes of the Tallmadge pastures. Roger looked at the ground. “I will miss you, Hugh.”

“And I, you. You are my only friend.”

“And you, mine.”

They shook hands.

The next day, to Reverdy Brune, after dancing class, Hugh said, “I am going to London, to attend an academy.” They walked alone on a path between some hedges in the Brunes’ landscaped grounds. The girl was wearing a white cotton dress, and a straw hat tied to her raven-black hair with a red ribbon.

The regret in his words did not escape the girl’s notice. “I am very happy for you,” she said with feigned indifference.

“I will miss you,” he said.

Reverdy Brune did not reply, but his words momentarily disturbed the composure of her face.

This did not escape Hugh. He grinned. “And you will miss me. I know that you will not permit yourself to say it, because so young a lady may not confess such thoughts.”

“I am not a lady,” she protested. “I am the daughter of a mere squire.”

“You are a lady,” said Hugh. “Here. I shall prove it.” He took one of her
gloved hands, raised it to his lips, and kissed it.