knowledge! He could hear the flaming rhetoric now! And what was the difference between those actions and a tax that would all but smother trade and legal business because most people would not be able to pay the tax, a tax levied over and above all the taxes and fees charged and which more often than not went to support the whole apparatus of royal governance? A tax over and above all those already charged by the Assembly itself! He wondered about the hubris of a man who would decree that His Majesty’s loyal and dutiful subjects should remain ignorant of events and happenings beyond the colony’s borders, who would deny them the means to express their own dissatisfaction or even satisfaction with present conditions.
But Randolph’s mind swerved away from focusing too long on that thought. He did not wish now to pursue that line of reasoning. The unbidden cogitation swept into his mind, and he let it plummet into the depths of his other concerns, such as how to reward Edgar Cullis. Perhaps a permanent appointment to one of the permanent committees.
He stopped pacing and turned to address Wythe, whose dour expression seemed to reflect similar remorseful thoughts. “It seems that murdered Cherokees and the Augusta Boys and other pressing business have addled the good sense of our friend down the way,” he said.
“We cannot now advise him to rescind the suspension, Mr. Randolph,” replied Wythe.
“No, that would be testing his patience.” Randolph paused. “We have both observed him when he is possessed by anger. To question his action would seem like challenging his lawful prerogative, even though that is not what we would do.” He chuckled once in ironic amusement. “And, ofcourse, he must have guessed who sent Mr. Cullis.”
“Do you think the citizenry will be possessed by anger?” asked Wythe. “Now no one will have the means to advertise wares, or property, or runaways, or any of the mundane business we are accustomed to. Many legitimate announcements must now remain…unannounced. It is, as you say, unprecedented.”
“I cannot imagine how the citizenry will swallow it,” said Randolph. “It seems that while we have persuaded him to thwart intemperate actions and words, we have also invited him to fix a pair of blinders over our eyes.”
Wythe nodded. “It smacks of Romish politics,” he remarked. “People may think he is practicing the powers of the Pope. Or the Prussian king. ‘Look straight ahead to your business, and never mind what other unpatriotic fools do or say.’” Wythe’s face seemed then to explode in horrified realization. “Why, his action will lend credence to Mr. Henry’s most incongruous and absurd fears!”
The two veterans of Virginia politics looked at each other in surprise at their tacit agreement with a man and an idea with which they did not wish to agree. The logic of events, however, was compelling them to. They did not like it.
* * *
Chapter 4: The Duel
I srael Beck, manservant and assistant bookkeeper at Morland Hall, late one morning in early August drove a sulky into Caxton to purchase some new ledger books, writing paper, and a pattern book for Ruth Dakin. He stopped when he saw a small crowd of townspeople gathered around a wagon outside of Wendel Barret’s shop, his first destination. He saw two men in fine clothes mounted on horses, and several liveried Negroes carrying out the wide wooden type cases of Barret’s press and loading them onto the wagon bed.
Just then Travis Barret, the printer’s twelve-year-old grandson, flew from the crowd and ran toward Beck. Beck signaled to him with his crop. When the boy stopped at the sulky, he asked, “What goes on here, young Barret?”
“The Council’s shutting us down, sir! Orders from the Governor! Grandpa’s all a fury! Got to tell Mr. Kenrick!”
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Beck. “Well, go ahead, and be sure to alert Mr. Frake, too!”
“Yes, sir!” Travis Barret sped off again in the
But Randolph’s mind swerved away from focusing too long on that thought. He did not wish now to pursue that line of reasoning. The unbidden cogitation swept into his mind, and he let it plummet into the depths of his other concerns, such as how to reward Edgar Cullis. Perhaps a permanent appointment to one of the permanent committees.
He stopped pacing and turned to address Wythe, whose dour expression seemed to reflect similar remorseful thoughts. “It seems that murdered Cherokees and the Augusta Boys and other pressing business have addled the good sense of our friend down the way,” he said.
“We cannot now advise him to rescind the suspension, Mr. Randolph,” replied Wythe.
“No, that would be testing his patience.” Randolph paused. “We have both observed him when he is possessed by anger. To question his action would seem like challenging his lawful prerogative, even though that is not what we would do.” He chuckled once in ironic amusement. “And, ofcourse, he must have guessed who sent Mr. Cullis.”
“Do you think the citizenry will be possessed by anger?” asked Wythe. “Now no one will have the means to advertise wares, or property, or runaways, or any of the mundane business we are accustomed to. Many legitimate announcements must now remain…unannounced. It is, as you say, unprecedented.”
“I cannot imagine how the citizenry will swallow it,” said Randolph. “It seems that while we have persuaded him to thwart intemperate actions and words, we have also invited him to fix a pair of blinders over our eyes.”
Wythe nodded. “It smacks of Romish politics,” he remarked. “People may think he is practicing the powers of the Pope. Or the Prussian king. ‘Look straight ahead to your business, and never mind what other unpatriotic fools do or say.’” Wythe’s face seemed then to explode in horrified realization. “Why, his action will lend credence to Mr. Henry’s most incongruous and absurd fears!”
The two veterans of Virginia politics looked at each other in surprise at their tacit agreement with a man and an idea with which they did not wish to agree. The logic of events, however, was compelling them to. They did not like it.
* * *
Chapter 4: The Duel
I srael Beck, manservant and assistant bookkeeper at Morland Hall, late one morning in early August drove a sulky into Caxton to purchase some new ledger books, writing paper, and a pattern book for Ruth Dakin. He stopped when he saw a small crowd of townspeople gathered around a wagon outside of Wendel Barret’s shop, his first destination. He saw two men in fine clothes mounted on horses, and several liveried Negroes carrying out the wide wooden type cases of Barret’s press and loading them onto the wagon bed.
Just then Travis Barret, the printer’s twelve-year-old grandson, flew from the crowd and ran toward Beck. Beck signaled to him with his crop. When the boy stopped at the sulky, he asked, “What goes on here, young Barret?”
“The Council’s shutting us down, sir! Orders from the Governor! Grandpa’s all a fury! Got to tell Mr. Kenrick!”
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Beck. “Well, go ahead, and be sure to alert Mr. Frake, too!”
“Yes, sir!” Travis Barret sped off again in the
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