by Eytan Kollin
An impeccably dressed servant answered the door. Though of simple cut, the doorman’s uniform was made from a rich plush velvet of a quality with Ben’s own favorite suits. In terms of the social display of prosperity, at least, Ben saw that Collinson had been entirely correct. But he could not help but wonder if this was also a means for Thomas Penn to show the Pennsylvanians—more specifically the Pennsylvanian now standing at his door—where the balance of power actually stood. The thought increased his wariness over the coming conversation.
Franklin was relieved of his hat and cloak, but decided to keep his cane. He was still not well-recovered from his recent affliction, and, ever since his arrival in London, his breath had been shorter than preferable. Far shorter.
Left waiting in the house’s main hall, Ben gazed at the paintings hanging on the walls. He recognized the likeness of Thomas Penn himself, and of course that of his famous father, William Penn, founder of the colony of Pennsylvania. There was also a large painting of William with a group of men, among whom Ben thought he recognized George Fox, Thomas Janney, and Robert Barclay. Much to his chagrin, the remainder of the portraits were entirely mysterious to him—he suspected the names of some, but not enough to hazard a guess. Interestingly, no pictures of William Penn’s other children were on display. It was as if Thomas Penn’s brothers and sisters did not exist.
Ben fought back a fit of coughing as his breath wheezed in. The muscles in his back clenched, his ears rang, and everything hurt as the world, for a moment, spun in place. When the coughing finally subsided, he held his left hand over his chest and muttered “Medicor.” A tingling wave flowed from that point through all his limbs, easing the pain and allowing him to take a deep, clear breath.
He shook his head.
The ringing persisted in his ears, but all other symptoms fled. He would pay for this temporary relief later, of course; he had come to understand that magic always extracted its price. But for now he was in need of his wits and the semblance of health.
The most prominent painting in the hall showed a woman, dressed in a fashionable gown of soft gray silk, standing next to a fireplace that held a large silver vase of flowers. The wall behind her was covered in ornate blue wallpaper, and the artist had clearly enjoyed contrasting a studiously sylvan picture above the fireplace with the more realistically painted tree and sky that were visible through a background window. Franklin was quite taken by the picture’s technique, and by the knowing, slightly bemused expression on the woman’s face.
“I see you have settled your eye on the portrait of my wife,” said a voice from close behind him.
Ben resisted the sudden startlement, managing to remain stock still. “So, this is the Lady Julianna Penn,” he said without turning, continuing to focus all his apparent attention on the painting before him. “Quite admirable.”
“Yes,” said Thomas Penn. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw the man step to his side and join in contemplation of the work. He wore finery far beyond anything Ben would have deemed practical, dressed head to foot in a silken suit of brown, gold, and silver. What was most striking about him was that even through the pudginess of age Thomas Penn still had strikingly sharp eyes and cheekbones.
Ben tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Mr. Penn.”
“Mr. Franklin.”
“A most handsome painting.”
“It was done by Arthur Devis, to celebrate the occasion of our marriage. Julianna posed for it in her father’s house on Albemarle Street, in London. Many an admirer has stood where you now stand and commented on her beauty.”
“For obvious reasons; you are a fortunate man. But if I may inquire about a different piece . . . ?” Ben turned to the group painting, “This one, with George Fox and your father.”
“Oh, that’s a flight of fancy my father commissioned. It never actually happened. These are the men foundational to the creation of Pennsylvania. George Fox was always good for causing a stir, wasn’t he? Much as you and your people are now with the Crown.” He gave Ben a questioning look, then turned and began to walk away, after first gesturing for Franklin to follow. “Isn’t it funny how far we’ve come since the days I was your patron, sending you parts for the clever engines of experimentation you built? But you did not come all the way from the colony to discuss art and the past, Mr. Franklin. I am in receipt of your draft complaint. Let us retire to the sitting room and discuss matters over a pot of tea, as gentlemen.”
Ben took stock as they proceeded in silence. Having heard from mutual acquaintances that Thomas Penn was a cold, distant, even taciturn man, he mistrusted this warmer-than-expected reception.
Servants with an elegant silver and china tea service awaited them in the sitting room. Ben took the setting in with both admiration for the handicraft he saw, and irritation at its excess: there was more wealth on display than he had ever before seen in a room this size. He felt a very long way from his own humble beginnings on Boston’s Milk Street.
Penn did not jump directly into important matters; instead, as their tea was laid out in silence by his help, he began by discussing interesting but less vital matters from Pennsylvania and other colonies, and the war effort in Europe. Ben was surprised to discover that Penn was not only well acquainted with the minutiae of political and military events in the colony his father had founded, but that he was informed on more mundane matters as well, especially those that involved Franklin himself. As they sipped hot black tea calmed with generous dollops of milk and sugar, Penn expressed deep appreciation for the work Ben’s paper and press had done to increase the prosperity of the colony, quoted obscure yet clever quips from Poor Richard’s Almanack, and offered praise for Ben’s work with the Library Company, the College of Pennsylvania . . . and even his adventures forming and then participating in Philadelphia’s volunteer fire company.
By the time the tea was near gone and the dregs cooling in their cups, Ben felt he understood the game that was being played; apparently Penn thought his poor colonial guest could be lulled and deflected through simple flattery. Such underestimation, in Ben’s judgment, was both mildly insulting and of enormous potential use. As he listened, he contemplated various ways to take advantage.
“But enough of pleasantries, Mr. Franklin. Do you mind if we move to the more formal portion of this meeting, in order to outline the basic position you represent?”
“Please, Mr. Penn. I would find it most enlightening if you did and would be much obliged,” answered Ben.
“Then please join me in my study.” Penn rose from his chair with ease; Franklin, with a little struggle. He wished he could take a moment to once more boost his vitality, but that was impossible in Penn’s presence. He followed him down the hall to a large room with even richer appointments, including an ornately carved formal table, a Venetian mirror, and elaborate Italian chandeliers with hand-blown glasswork.
Thomas’s younger brother, Richard, was waiting for them there, already seated. The informal Heads of Complaint that Ben had drafted was on the table before him, and Ben could see that Richard had been reading it and taking notes.
As they sat down in their own well-upholstered chairs, Thomas cleared his throat and spoke.
“Please allow me to introduce the other quarter vote of the proprietorship, Mr. Richard Penn. I am told the two of you share natal days. Such coincidence!”
“January 17th?” asked Ben.
Richard Penn smiled. “The actual one.”
Thomas looked momentarily confused. “Pardon me?”
“Let me clarify, brother. Mr. Franklin and I were both born in the same month, January. But when the calendar was aligned five years ago, he was among those who chose to adjust his date of birth in consequence.”
“It was only sensible,” Franklin offered. “The calendar was wrong by 11 days.”
“This again?” Thomas put his hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. “It was bad enough, the placards and protests. Can we not move past this, Richard?”
“Parliament agrees with you, sir. For my belief, this misnumbering of days is but the whim of a dead pope, and while I must put up with it in law and commerce, I will not submit to it in my person.” He nodded cordially enough to both of the other men, moving on with grace. “But surely we are not here to rehash the lost days . . . ?”
“No, we are not,” said Thomas. He turned in his seat to face Ben. “Please correct me if anything I now say is misinformed or inaccurate. It seems to me that you represent a group that is deeply upset at the hereditary rights granted to myself, my family, and the other established and settled estate owners in the colony. Furthermore, you feel that much of this power over the politics of Pennsylvania is unjust—as it is not power exerted in the best interest of the colony or the Crown, but rather merely for personal gain. Put simply, you believe a more equitable means of apportioning power must be developed, so those who are active in the colony’s daily affairs would have authority commensurate with their abilities, accomplishments, and proximity. And should this not happen, you believe that the actions of our appointed office will harm the colony and people therein.”
“That,” agreed Ben, “fairly expresses the basics of the Assembly’s point of view. I would further state that the Assembly and colonists would have no problem at all, were it not for the tax exemption of large portions of the incomes of these settled estate owners. Specifically, your ownership and refusal to be financially accountable in a time of war makes it difficult to run our colony. Especially in light of your refusal to acknowledge and represent that two thirds of the Assembly are pacifists and will not muster troops.”
“Very well then,” said Thomas, firmly. “I agree that things must change.”
“Excuse me?” Of all the words Ben might have imagined coming from Penn’s mouth in this moment, these were not among them.
“The point you make is a valid one. Most of the proprietors don’t even live in the colony. What could we know about how to properly defend it from French or Indian attack, or negotiate a trade deal? Might as well ask your Speaker Norris to do something about John Wilkes bribing his way into office in Aylesbury.”
“That is a most enlightened way of viewing the matter.”
“Thank you,” said Penn, smiling warmly. “Of course, your main problem lies with the Quakers, and the fact that they refuse to even mount a defense. Rather than putting able-bodied young men into service, and arming them, they would have us buy treaties with the aggressors to the west. This is weakness. Their pacifism will get them killed. Why should they have a voice in the Assembly, then, if they are unwilling to pay the cost of all that they now receive? Please, convince me otherwise, but the way I see it, I will still own my land after their rejection of a reasonable course puts them, and many others, in the grave.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. “Do not mistake pacifism for weakness, sir. Your own father bent the knee to no church and all the while raised the fist to no man. In this world there must be a place for those who refuse to fight, as much as for those who do, and in my observation it takes far greater strength to put down a weapon than to pick one up. Your family founded this colony, and its Assembly, to protect this ideal.”
Richard waved Ben’s words away, looking bemused. “The Charter expresses no such thing. My father needed more money. He got it.”
“Your father’s Charter expresses exactly that, in its first section.” Ben made no effort to disguise his irritation. “Just as its second section establishes the Assembly, and enumerates its powers. We Pennsylvanians have the same rights as any free-born subject of England.”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Franklin,” replied Thomas Penn. “My father promised a lot of things. I don’t really care about that. The Charter of Privileges is a worthless document, granting rights which my father was not, by the Royal Charter, empowered to grant. Nothing can be claimed by it, and as you have already pointed out, a new arrangement is necessary. That is the essence of the document you have placed before us, is it not? Something new?”
All vestige of illness faded from Ben’s awareness as he felt heat course through his veins. His face went flat, expressionless. Those that knew him well knew that when he was emotionless, he was at the height of his anger. Thomas Penn did not know him at all. Calmly, quietly, Ben continued. “If your father had no right to grant these privileges, with the Throne’s support, and published all over Europe, with the Throne’s pound, after his father’s rescuing of the King—well then, those who came to settle in the province on the faith of that grant were deceived. Every last settler who came on his word and the King’s word were cheated and betrayed. Surely this is not the position you are intent on taking. No sane person would accuse the Throne of that.”
Thomas Penn’s demeanor was as cool and aloof as Franklin’s. “You assume culpability where there is none. The settlers should have looked to the laws, and to the Royal Charter. If they were deceived then it was their own fault; they should have learned to read and utilized that capability. It is not the Penn family’s fault they were fools. And fools who are on the wrong side of the law.”
Before Ben could speak, Richard Penn held up his hand and coughed politely. Ben turned to face him, understanding that this was part of their game, having arranged the room so that he could only look into the face of one Penn at a time, whereas both could always watch him. “My brother appears to feel your proposal to be too forward, and lacking in the appreciation our father’s memory deserves. I take a more practical view. To me this is not so—shall we say, deep?—an issue. It is just that we, the proprietors, do not want to give up the political power which serves to protect the financial benefits we now receive. That is the real issue. Of course you want more power. And there is a way for you to have it, should the Assembly be willing to consider a solution along certain lines.”
Ben regarded the younger Penn warily. “And what lines would those be?”
“We might be persuaded to give up all extra-legal rights we now possess as a special class in the colony . . . in return for a binding guarantee that our lands will not be taxed. Ever.”
“Unworkable, sir. Your holdings represent too much of the land value in the colony to be allowed so complete an exception. Indeed, if—”
Richard Penn lifted a forestalling hand. “Then let us be less complete. Naturally, as loyal subjects to our monarch, should His Majesty declare a war and the colonial Assembly vote to support it, then we would allow our lands to be taxed. But only as much as others in the colony, and never more than ten percent, no matter what appalling burden the rest of the colony chooses to impose upon itself.”
Ben looked from Richard to Thomas and back, slowly, gauging their expressions as he thought through the implications of the offer. In Richard Penn’s eyes he thought he saw something of the common hog-trader, willing to drop price if necessary to complete a deal; in Thomas’s he saw only boredom and disdain, with no hint of compromise. And Thomas held the dominant position in the proprietorship.
“Many would object to the Penns not having to pay taxes except in time of declared war.”
“No doubt,” said Richard Penn. “But Pennsylvania is growing. As it does, the lands available for taxation will increase.”
“A clarification, then. Can I presume that your proposal would apply only to the lands the proprietors hold now? And that any future holdings you might acquire in the colony will be taxed at normal rates, instead of joining the exemption?”
“It will be difficult to persuade the other proprietors, but I sense that without this concession you could not bring the Assembly to agree. Is that correct?”
“I wouldn’t even try,” replied Ben.
Thomas Penn spoke next, and once more Ben had to turn in his seat. “It will be difficult, but I think I can make it work so long as any such an agreement is guaranteed in a way that all will find inviolate. An act of Parliament, for example, signed by His Majesty.”
“You could get Parliament t
o act on such a matter? I find that hard to believe.”
“It would mean calling in a few favors, but I have a lifetime of collected favors, and not all that much lifetime left in which to spend them.” Thomas laughed at his own joke, and Ben found it diplomatic to laugh with him. “It might be best to use some of this personal credit to settle the issues that threaten the peace of our colony. Under the right circumstances, I suspect we could have a draft agreement out of the House of Lords and on its way to the Assembly in less than a month, in order to avoid placing it on the desk of a judge. Always assuming . . . ”
An uncomfortable silence followed—one which, clearly, neither Penn intended to fill.
“Yes?” asked Ben, finally yielding.
“ . . . assuming your further cooperation, of course,” said Thomas Penn.
“I speak for the interests of my colony, gentlemen. I will not yield to proposals which are not to their benefit, and you already ask much.”
“Oh, this has nothing to do with the colony. Richard? If you may, please?”
Richard Penn opened one drawer of the desk and removed from it a paper-wrapped packet, tied in string, which he placed on the desk. Pulling the knot loose, he unfolded the paper, unveiling a neat stack of old, leather-bound journals. He lifted one at a time from the stack, distributing them in a pattern across the desktop that reminded Ben of the way self-proclaimed seers spread cards for divination.
Thomas Penn read the shock in Ben’s eyes with evident pleasure. “Recognize them, do you?”
Ben spoke slowly, and with care. “They appear to be quite similar to a set of rare volumes I last examined in my home in Philadelphia.”
“We may speak freely. They are not similar—they are the same. But of course you already know that. Printer and collector that you are, I’d wager you memorized every nick, scratch, and stain on their bindings while you had them in your possession.”