Chesapeake by James A. Michener
ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT JOURNEYS EVER undertaken along the Chesapeake was also one of the shortest. It covered less than twelve miles, but when its ugly mission was completed, a revolution had been launched.
The Lords Proprietor of Maryland had always enjoyed the right of advowson, a feudal privilege which they sometimes discharged in ways that could not be fathomed. All citizens of the colony conceded that the lords had the right to appoint their own clergyman to any Church of England vacancy which occurred, but no one could comprehend how even an absentee owner who lived in London without ever having seen Maryland could have appointed to the rural church at Wrentham a man so totally devoid of religious conviction as Jonathan Wilcok.
This monster arrived at the rich living located a few miles north of the headwaters of Dividing Creek one November day in 1770, two hundred and eighty pounds of blackmail, simony and self-indulgence. The blackmail accounted for his having obtained this enviable sinecure: he had caught young Lord Baltimore in a situation which was not only compromising but also downright perilous unless secrecy were maintained, and when he pointed this out to the profligate he also suggested, “If you were to give me the living at Wrentham north of the Choptank, I’d be no threat to your safety.”
The simony consisted of his selling at maximum profit to himself all services of the church. He would not marry, christen or bury without substantial fees, which had to be paid in choice tobacco, and he also abused his position by driving the hardest possible bargains in acquiring real estate for his private use. There was no transaction so venal that he would not resort to it, if only it showed promise of gain.
But it was his self-indulgence which put him in bad odor with his parishioners. Possessed of an appointment from which no force on earth could remove him—neither the Bishop of London who despised him, nor Lord Baltimore, who feared him, and certainly not his flock, who had no rights at all except to pay his handsome salary and keep silent—he was free to behave as he wished. This included getting mildly drunk seven nights a week, siring two bastard children, maintaining a foul-mouthed wife and a mistress, and propelling his vast and sweaty bulk into any problem whose resolution might yield him an advantage.
It was loathsome that the Church of England should suffer from the misbehavior of Jonathan Wilcok, but traditions of the time absolved him, and if the scandals he generated did damage the church, they did not obliterate the splendid work done by other devoted clergymen whose appointments had been similarly made. The Rector of Wrentham and his brethren represented the Established Church of Maryland; their existence was approved by king and Parliament and their conduct was beyond reproof. On balance, they performed acceptably, in the proportion of seven worthy ministers to three rectors of Wrentham.
At dawn on a cold day in January 1773 this clergyman, now well over three hundred pounds in weight, rose early, bundled himself in swaths of homespun, over which he slipped a clerical garb with stiff collar and white tie, studied himself admiringly, and said to his adoring wife, “Today we bring some order into this community.” Then he informed his four slaves that he would be sailing to Patamoke for the court session due to convene at noon. “Imperative I be there. The future of the Choptank is at stake.”
So the slaves readied two horses and brought out the rude palanquin which hung suspended between them. Then they informed the rector, “All’s ready, Master,” and he waddled to where his contraption waited.
It would have been quite impossible for him to walk on his own from the church to the head of Dividing Creek, a distance of three miles, but he was able to negotiate the few steps to the palanquin. However, when he got there he was incapable of climbing in, for the thing swayed and refused to stay steady. So one of the slaves stood between the two horses, quieting them and the palanquin; two took the rector by his arms and moved him backward while the fourth remained in front, pushing on his huge belly.
“Now!” the men cried, and with remarkable skill they engineered their master into his conveyance. Grunting and sweating even on this cold morning, the rector cried, “Forward!” and one of the slaves walked ahead, leading the two horses, while two others pushed from behind; the fourth man was supposed to jump into any emergency to ensure that the fat man did not fall out.
In this manner the pilgrimage reached the stream where the episcopal barge waited, and there new complexities arose, for the mammoth clergyman now had to be eased out of his palanquin, walked across a slippery wharf and let down into the boat. Finally this was accomplished, to the accompaniment of directions shouted by everyone, and as soon as the rector landed safely in the barge he made himself at ease, lay back on seven pillows and roared, “On to Patamoke.”
When he arrived at that thriving commercial center, children and idlers passed the word, “Here comes the Rector of Wrentham!” and all ran to the wharf to enjoy once more the extraordinary manner in which he would be brought ashore. It required the services of six men: from the barge the four slaves pushed and grunted while on the shore two others threw down a rope, which was passed around the fat man’s back and under his armpits, each of the men retaining one end. Then, as the men on shore counted, “One, two, three!” everyone exerted maximum force and grandly the rector rose from the barge as if on wings and slid ashore.
Again, as soon as his feet found security on the wharf, he became composed and grandiose, the traditional figure of a benevolent clergyman. Throwing his coat about him, he nodded graciously to the townspeople and walked with ponderous dignity toward the courthouse, his porcine face wreathed in condescending smiles. As he entered that low stone building he noted with pleasure that all was in readiness: the bench was occupied by justices well disposed to his cause; the three culprits were waiting to receive their just punishments.
The defendants were an unlikely trio, with nothing but their common guilt to form a bond between them. Even in dress they were distinct. Simon Steed, aged forty-three, was a tall, austere, thin-shouldered man who treated the court, the spectators and his fellow criminals with equal disdain. His clothes followed the French style, a taste he had developed at St. Omer’s. His wig was powdered; his stock was starched; his shirt had fourteen buttons and was touched with lace; his blue velvet coat came almost to his knees; and his pants ended just below, marked by small silvery buckles. At his wrists a fringe of gray lace protruded, lending an air of elegance when he moved his arms. He was a gentleman, the wealthiest man in the community, and to see him standing in the dock like a common criminal was exciting to the townspeople, but from the deference they paid him it was obvious that their sympathies lay with him and not with his accuser.
Beside him stood a man just turned forty, distinguished by the fact that he wore a broad-brimmed flattish hat which he refused to remove even when nudged by the court attendant. This was Levin Paxmore, one of the principal supports of Patamoke Meeting and head of the Paxmore Boatyard, whose workmen were putting in doubled hours during these years of stress. He was a somber man, dressed in a long gray coat marked by nine frogs, with no lace at the wrists and no silver buckles on the shoes, but he, too, displayed a kind of elegance, for the cloth of his coat and pantaloons was of the best. He was obviously offended at being summoned to court and refused to acknowledge the gestures of good will thrown his way.
The third man had often stood before this bar. Thin, quick of movement, rascally of eye, he captained a miserable old sloop that traded the Chesapeake. He came from the marsh and was dressed accordingly: improvised shoes made of animal hide; no stockings; baggy pants held about the waist by a tattered rope; heavy woolen shirt but no coat; no hat; and a dark beard. He was Teach Turlock, and even his name was an offense to this community, for a rapscallion father had named him after the pirate Blackbeard, “a man who knew what he was up to.” Forty-one years ago, when the prisoner had been named, Blackbeard was still a fearsome memory, for he had ravaged the oceans, and two gentlemen had gone into court to force old Turlock to give his son a proper name, and the court had so order
The social and moral principles of the three defendants were as varied as their clothing. Simon Steed was an avowed supporter of the king; he had little patience with those agitators in Massachusetts and Virginia who were uttering treason, and he hoped devoutly that ill-intentioned men in both America and England might soon be brought to their senses. Levin Paxmore held aloof from political discussion; he felt that God ordained governments and that men had no right even to comment, let alone protest. It was Teach Turlock who represented the new spirit abroad in the colonies; he was a potential revolutionist, not from principle but from an ugly desire to get even with those stationed above him. When men talked in whispers about rebellion, he fingered his gun.
Only the intrusion of some alien force as powerful as the Rector of Wrentham could have enlisted these three unlikely companions in a common cause, and now that gigantic, puffing servant of the church wheezed his way to the front of the court, gingerly lowered himself into a broad chair and signaled to the justices that the trial should begin.
The tax collector testified first. “Time out of mind, all good citizens of this district have delivered to me before the last day of December thirty pounds of choice tobacco to be handed over to the Rector of Wrentham as his salary for maintaining the Established Church in our district.”
“Has this always been the law of this colony?” the presiding judge asked.
“Your father’s day and mine. Your honors handed me the tobacco, as honest Christians should.”
And the three judges nodded self-righteously.
“Has anyone failed to pay?” the presiding judge asked.
“These three.”
“You’re the tax collector. Why didn’t you take action?”
The tax collector blushed uneasily, looked down at his feet, then said in a high, whining voice, “The other rector told me, ‘Leave them alone, damned Papists and Quakers. God will punish them.’ But our new rector”—and here he looked approvingly at the fat man—“he intends to straighten things out.”
“How?” the judge asked.
“Each of these three must pay ten years of tithes. Our rector insists upon it as his due.”
“And you asked these men for their tobacco?”
“I did.”
“And did Simon Steed refuse to deliver his three hundred pounds?”
“He did. Said he was Catholic and refused to pay.”
“Did Levin Paxmore fail to deliver?”
“He did. Said he was Quaker.”
“And did Teach Turlock also refuse?”
“He did.”
“And did you ask each of these men on three separate occasions, as required by law, to pay their assessments?”
“I did.”
“And did each refuse three times?”
“They did.”
The constable testified that as soon as the tax collector notified him of the delinquencies he personally did his best to collect the three hundred pounds, but had been rebuffed. “Mr. Steed, if it please the court, was grandly indifferent ... refused to notice me ... told one of his men, ‘Get that fellow off my property.’ Friend Paxmore, the one with the hat on his head, behaved quite different. I’ve had to arrest him before for not serving with the militia, and when he saw me coming he asked in a low voice, ‘What does thee want this time?’ and when I told him ‘Three hundred pounds for the chapel,’ he said, ‘Thee knows I can’t pay that.’ ”
“And what did you say?”
“I said, ‘Thee knows it’s off to jaily-baily.’ ”
The audience laughed, and even Paxmore allowed a faint smile to relax his lips.
“Did Turlock offer to pay?” the judge asked.
“He offered to shoot me.” This, too, occasioned laughter, but the constable added, “He had no gun and I judged it was only a manner of speaking.”
“But he did offer to shoot you?”
“In words, yes.”
Now came the time for the rector to testify. Ponderously he struggled out of his chair, adjusted the white stock beneath his pendulous throat and said in precise, educated manner, “Time out of mind it has been the revered custom in this colony for every man, woman and child above the age of sixteen to help pay the rector’s salary. This provides funds for the poor, maintains the church buildings for worship, and gives proof that all citizens pertain to the church and volunteer to protect it. If even one person refuses to pay, the entire structure of our Christian faith is put in jeopardy, and this the courts have always recognized. These three men have persistently denied the right of the church to collect its just fee, and I demand that they be fined ten times thirty pounds and sentenced to jail for their contumely.”
“You’ve heard the charges,” the judge said. “Turlock, have you aught to say?”
The waterman shrugged.
“Friend Paxmore, can you offer any justification?”
The tall Quaker shook his head.
The judge then asked Steed, but before the planter could respond, the rector objected. “Your honor, it would be wise, I think, not to allow this man to speak in open court. He was educated in France, where he imbibed the pernicious and debilitating doctrines of atheism. He has imported the books of Voltaire and Montesquieu and has loaned them to any who could read French. He has even gone so far as to find a copy of Candide done into English, and this, too, he has disseminated. Whatever he chooses to say will be seditious and irrelevant.”
But the justices agreed that Steed be allowed to speak, and in the quiet, forceful manner he had developed for dealing with all problems, he proceeded to interrogate the rector. “Do you hold that even Catholics and Quakers must pay the yearly tithe?”
“I do.”
“Even when tobacco is so hard to come by?” Before the rector could respond, Steed asked, “Where would Teach Turlock get tobacco?”
“Others do.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Where?”
“I am not concerned with the household problems of Teach Turlock.” And by the distasteful look he threw at the waterman he indicated that he had never been interested in Teach’s moral problems, either.
“In a time when tobacco can scarcely be found, all other branches of government have agreed to accept their assessments in flax ... or corn ... You alone insist on tobacco. Why?”
“Because the Lords Baltimore entered into a solemn covenant with God to give Him thirty pounds of choice tobacco per head per year.”
Steed walked to where a farmer and his wife sat. Standing beside them, he asked the rector, “Did you accept from this man part of his farm in payment of his assessment?”
“He offered it.”
“How many acres?”
“Sixty-seven.”
“Do you now own, in your name, not the church’s, a total of three hundred and seventy acres of the best Choptank farmland?”
“The rector of any parish has the right to live in a comfortable house and farm his land.”
“Three hundred and seventy acres’ worth?”
“It’s land that has come to me honorably.”
“Did you propose last year that I cede you fifty-three acres west of Dividing Creek?”
“You owed it to me.”
“And how large will your holdings be at the end of this year?”
The rector appealed to the court, and the justices agreed that this was inflammatory, whereupon Steed started a new tack. “What charities have you paid for in the last twelve months?”
“If anyone had come to me—”
“Didn’t Peter Willis come to you?”
“He was notorious. To have given him aid—”
“Whom did you aid?” Steed’s fastidious use of the word whom irritated the clergyman, who railed, “Whom? Whom? And whom are you to question me in this way?”
Very quietly Steed said, “I merely wanted to know what charities.”
The fat clergyman appealed again to the court, and again they sustained him. “Mr. Steed, the Rector of Wrentham is not on trial. You are.”
“I apologize,” Steed said humbly. “But I must ask one more question, which is perhaps even more intrusive than the preceding.”
“Watch your deportment,” the presiding judge warned.
“Rector Wilcok, these are difficult years. Strange voices are being raised in the land—”
“He speaks sedition!” the rector warned.
“The time may soon be at hand when England will need every champion—”
“He speaks French sedition!”
“Do you not think it might be prudent if, in such difficult times, when you already own so much property—”
“Sedition! Sedition! I will not listen to such questioning.”
The justices agreed. “Mr. Steed, you have far exceeded the proprieties. You have raised questions of the most pernicious tendency and have sought to bring into the quiet precincts of this court the passions which excite the multitudes outside. You must sit down.”
“Those passions, sir—”
“Constable, sit him down.”
That officer was not required; Steed bowed to the justices, bowed to the rector, and with a grace that could only be called exquisite, wheeled and bowed to the farm couple whose lands had been stolen from them. Then he returned to his chair with the other prisoners, where Levin Paxmore clasped his hand.
“The prisoners will rise,” the presiding judge intoned, and when they were before him he said gravely, “Especially in these troublous times is it necessary that the traditions on which our colony is based be observed with extra diligence. Time out of mind good men have paid part of their increase to the church which protects and guides them. Now more than ever we need that protection and guidance, and for anyone, Catholic or Quaker, to deny that obligation is a shocking breach of citizenship. Simon Steed and Levin Paxmore, you are each ordered to deliver to the church at Wrentham three hundred pounds of tobacco well and truly casked.”