by Eytan Kollin
“Mr. Franklin,” Polly said, “may I introduce you to the Society of Numbers. Society of Numbers, Mr. Benjamin Franklin, Esq., late of the colony of Pennsylvania, now lodging here in London.”
The elderly man, who was at least two decades older than Ben, leaned forward over crossed legs and gestured to two seats. “Please, please, feel welcome to join us, Mr. Franklin! We are so very happy to receive you! Sit down, sit down, and you too, Lord Twenty-Three.”
Something scratched at the back of his mind, like a terrier digging for a bone, but Ben couldn’t get at the detail buried in his memory. He let go of the elusive thought for the moment and focused on the group. Bowing his head slightly and embracing the seemingly freeform style of the group, Ben smiled warmly at the Quaker woman across the circle. “Mrs. Payton. It is an unexpected pleasure to see you here!”
“Hello, neighbor Franklin. It is a pleasure to see thee as well. It has been, what, three years since thee and Debby received me and Samuel Fothergill in Philadelphia, has it not? But please, leave names outside. In here I am simply Lord Seven.”
“Yes, yes,” the older man interrupted. “Please, be seated that we may continue.”
“Thank you, Lord Five.” Polly made sure that Ben was comfortable before sitting herself. Then she led him through courteous introductions to each attending member of the Society in turn. They were Lords Five, Eight, Nine, Thirteen, and Twenty-Eight for the men, and Lords Seven and Twenty-One for the women. Plus, Polly as Lord Twenty-Three, of course. It made for much to remember, and Ben felt slightly distracted by the task, even as he waded into general conversation with the group.
So many questions . . .
Ben chose to start with the most direct. “Is there a Lord One?” he asked. The whole group quieted, not-so-subtly watching their oldest member to see how he would answer.
“Indeed, there is, Mr. Franklin,” said Lord Five. “Or perhaps the correct word is ‘was.’ We don’t know which it is, for we have not seen our founder in many years. Lord Eight is the last member for whom he shared in the voting. But this is minutiae of the oldest provenance, and irrelevant to where we are today. I fear I may bore you by continuing.”
“Not in the least,” said Ben. “Everything about your group is of interest to me. Consider your naming convention! How came it to be that Polly—” he was briefly hushed by looks of discomfort and disapproval, so apologized earnestly. “Forgive me. I am still unused to the custom. How came it to be that Lord Twenty-Three is not Lady Twenty-Three?”
Lord Twenty-One spoke up. “As one of the three women here, I would like to answer that. At our founding it was decided that for the purposes of discussing matters in a complete and open nature, it would not do to have anything but complete equality. Otherwise we would be likely to fall into the customs of our upbringing. My own included.”
“And the focus of our purpose was so important,” added Lord Five, “that it suggested we should discuss matters in a new way. Thus here, within our Society, there is perfectly equivalent rank and identical title. Our only individual distinction is our numbers.”
“And how does one get a number?” asked Ben, genuinely intrigued. “Is it a matter of one’s importance in the group?”
“Not at all,” said the one called Lord Nine, who looked to Ben like a printer. “It is simply a matter of when you joined. For instance, if you were to honor us with your presence on a regular basis and we approved you to join, you would become Lord Thirty.”
“How does one join?” Ben asked.
“Simple,” Polly answered. Ben smiled, trying to imagine ever calling her Lord Twenty-Three. “Every other member of the Society must approve, upon your recommendation by any one of us.”
“A liberum veto,” Ben said, knowing the practice well, having used it himself for the Junto. “That is an excellent way to keep membership down.”
“And trust up,” added Lord Five.
As the evening’s conversation progressed, sometimes involving the entire group, while at other times splitting apart into eddies of communication among smaller subsets of the attendees, Ben was fascinated by the range of topics covered and the depth of knowledge on display. It was without question the equal or better of the best intellectual discourse he had previously experienced. But it was also frustrating, in its own strange manner, for it felt to him as though he were witnessing an act—as if, indeed, his presence brought with it a singular distortion that was guiding the group away from matters they would otherwise have devoted themselves to. Heeding Polly’s earlier caution, he said nothing, though he still wondered.
With the hour growing late, several members settled their accounts, indicating the impending dissolutions of the night’s discussions. As he himself did so, Lord Five gained everyone’s attention, then turned to Polly. “Before the evening entirely gets away from us,” he said, “I understand that you have ventured to bring Mr. Franklin among us because you felt he had some affinity for our raison d’être.”
Lord Sixteen gazed at Ben intently. “Is it time to consider this matter?”
Polly nodded. “I, Lord Twenty-Three, would like to request a clearness committee to consider that which we know to be now together but soon apart, and align our efforts with the forces for good within light of Emræs.”
One by one, round the circle, each of the Lords placed their left hand forward, palm up.
Ben blinked a bit at the strange phrasing but made certain that his demeanor remained warm and open. Inside, he felt his stomach drop as he finally remembered the troubling thought. Gasparini, and that cold morning five years ago, came to mind. As memory returned, it was of the magician speaking a phrase. “One of the lost journals of Myrddin Emræs. One chronicling the founding members and numbers of his society, no less. How odd to find it here.”
His mind raced, and his pulse quickened.
A quick glance at Polly revealed that she was smiling.
Apparently, thought Ben, I have passed muster.
He raised his own left hand, but differently, in the manner of a schoolboy seeking to ask a question.
“Yes, Mr. Franklin?” said Lord Five.
“Well, nothing ventured, as the proverb says.” Using both hands, he untied his cravat and loosened top buttons of his shirt sufficient to reach in and pull forth his necklace, holding up his own hidden object for all to see. The resulting look in all their faces confirmed everything he had begun to suspect. “Does this mean we can talk about the secret things now?”
The
Stevenson Home
Craven Street
London, England
February 28th
24
I Will Not Be Spoken
to in This Way
With William due back any day from his long-planned tour of the countryside, accompanied by King, Ben thought it high time to indulge in some long overdue London shopping. The hunt had been a great success. So much so, in fact, that come late afternoon of his second day of shopping he sent his overstuffed carriage home to Craven Street under Peter’s supervision while he stayed at the glassworks shop to oversee the crafting of some special lenses and other experimental equipment. Having completed this, he had overseen the packing of his purchase, then hired a sedan chair to carry him home. He held the wrapped goods carefully on his lap, eager to return to his rooms so he could begin his new experiments.
As Ben climbed out of the sedan chair, however, Peter hurried out the front door to meet him. Ben was surprised to see that his normally imperturbable servant was deeply agitated.
“Is something the matter?” Ben asked.
“Yes, sir. Master William is here, and very upset. He has commanded me to bring you right to him and not say a word.”
Ben’s mouth opened, then closed, followed by a deep knitting of the brow. Finally, he shrugged and motioned for Peter to lead the way, while carefully holding his lenses under his other arm. He followed Peter into the house, then upstairs and into the main sitting room. There he fou
nd his son sitting in his favorite side chair, a plush and comfortable short legged lounger. William’s hands were clenched so strongly his knuckles had gone white, and his face was red. “Leave us, Peter,” he directed, with evident heat. When the slave was gone he rose from the chair, bypassing common civility in a way Ben had never seen before, and launched straight to his point as he jabbed a finger in the air at Ben. “Father, it is all your fault. I can’t believe you let this happen! No, made it happen!”
“I beg your pardon?” Confused, Ben took a moment to think by walking to the window and gently depositing the cloth-wrapped parcel on the end table. “What exactly is my fault, William?”
“It is your lax attitude with the slaves that has caused this to come to pass. You treat them like they are something more, and they get ideas. You cannot deny it!” The young man’s tone was haughty and supercilious; an aspect of his nature that showed itself rarely, and which always troubled Ben when it did. He found it keenly repugnant.
“Watch your tone, boy.” Ben spoke quietly, stoically, as felt his own passion rising to meet his son’s. The observation gave him pause. He felt suddenly certain that this was one of William’s transparent chess moves—he was trying to work Ben up into anger, so he would be unable to respond as rationally as he might later wish.
But why?
“How dare you call me ‘boy’! Like I’m just one of them,” William screamed, gesturing in the direction of Peter’s exit. This was part of some game on William’s part, he understood, but it was also a direct response to real or imagined provocations. Just as so many of his moves in chess were simply a response to what he saw on the board, with no deeper strategy or thought involved, William was throwing out anger to see what response could be drawn.
Oblivious to the shift in his father’s demeanor, William continued shouting. “I will not have our family made the fool by your inability to behave as a proper English gentleman. You are the product of a primitive colonial culture, and as much as your charisma has blinded some to your smallness, I can no longer sit silently at your side, watching real power and the real world be lost to your hidebound philosophy.”
Ben watched his son, quietly clenching his jaw. Not a muscle in his body so much as twitched.
“Do you have nothing to say?” William’s face was growing angrier with each moment Ben failed to respond.
“I am unable to account for what has brought this tirade on. It does not seem to me you wish a response, but rather an audience. So, I shall be an audience.”
William once more jabbed an accusing finger at Ben. “Are you truly unaware that King has run away? Are you that simple?”
Ben’s blinked in surprise and chose to ignore the insult for the moment. “He is not with you?”
“No, he is not. Three days into my journey I received a missive from the household stating that I was to send him back immediately—that your poor health had returned, and you required his assistance. Had you not done that, he would not have escaped.”
Ben stared at this stranger who wore his son’s face. The anger created an ugly mask, but Ben suspected that the mask was letting the true William out, rather than concealing the William, Ben wished he was. There was nothing of his beloved child to be seen; not even a shade.
He sighed heavily, but answered, “I ordered no such letter. Nor can I imagine the circumstances under which I would have done any such thing. Think, William. Were I ill, why would I send for help that would be days in coming, when there is aid aplenty for local hire?”
William frowned, wrestling with this unconsidered but inarguable truth. “I don’t . . . I . . . I can’t understand how King could have been able to arrange such a subterfuge.”
Ben spoke in his calmest possible voice. “I should think you would be relieved to be done with him. You complained incessantly about his uselessness and constantly whined that he was a source of mischief and dismay around the house. Your hatred and disdain for him were palpable at times.”
William’s face went red again, “That is exactly the sort of trivializing response I would expect from you at a time like this. One does not hate a possession, one simply gets frustrated when it does not function as intended. This is exactly what I mean when I say you are a backward colonial. You have no sense of propriety or station. I have already inquired into the services of an agent who assures me that King can be found and returned to us with a minimum of fuss and only moderate expense. None of higher station ever need know that our property ran.”
“Billy—” he began, but was quickly interrupted.
“My name is William. Do not trivialize me as you do this situation, old man.”
Ben took a deep breath. “William, then,” he said, accepting the correction in his most neutral tones. “I am truly perplexed as to why you would wish to pursue this particular line of action. Although King was meant to be your man, you despised him, finding him troublesome and useless. You said it repeatedly. You were unhappy. He was clearly unhappy. Why must we go to so much trouble and expense over someone you don’t really want back into the household?”
William shook his head. “It is unbelievable to me that a man as smart as yourself could be so stupid about these things. He must be recovered, and made an example, or our family will lose the precious good opinion of people of worth. Only punishment will serve. As for expense, I propose we recoup the cost of his recovery by selling him to whichever Carolina plantation will pay the most. Let him regret his actions for the rest of his days.”
Ben was quite done with this absurdity. “People of worth don’t earn their value by taking advantage of other people, whether they own them or not, you fool. What in the bloody hells do you think we are here fighting for? Pleasantries?” Ben drew himself up and raised an admonishing finger. “I will not be spoken to in this way, Billy. He was your slave, and you handled him badly while he was with you.”
William opened his mouth to retort but Ben’s chilly gaze froze the words in his mouth.
“People of worth don’t seek out and hurt other people just to make themselves feel better about being petty. There is no need to disparage me when it was your management that induced him to behave so. This vindictiveness you indulge in does not suit you, and is far more a stain on the good name Franklin than any mercy shown would be—even if that name is colonial. I shudder to think who these people are whose good opinion you favor over mine, if such behavior is their standard and requirement. People of worth don’t skulk around caring more for other people’s damned opinions,” William reeled back at his father’s words, “than for their own humanity. I see now it was a mistake to have you take up study for the bar at the Middle Temple, for it has taught you to mistake richness for worth, and act like the damned Penns, bloody worthless vultures that they are.”
William slammed his hand into the wall, leaving a gaping hole in the lath and plaster, with cracks spiderwebbing outward for several inches. “Do not ascribe my thoughts to the Middle Temple, you addle pate. It is with my own power that I have sought out the truths you would keep hidden. I have developed a good understanding with the Penn family, and I see now how you would burn to the ground all that they have built, rather than allow them the profit they deserve from it. If you intend to set the Colonies aflame, you must do so without me. I will take my leave of this house and of you, sir.”
When Ben said nothing in reply and simply stood stock still, expressionless—William bowed and departed the room.
There was a queasy feeling in the pit of Ben’s stomach. His pulse thundered in his temples. He wanted to run after William, but whether to beg forgiveness or lash out himself in turn, he could not say. Instead he stood absolutely still as the window light slowly faded with the day, sick inside with the certainty that there was no way back from this moment. The words echoed in his mind, “I have developed a good understanding with the Penn family, and I see now how you would burn to the ground all that they have built.”
Ben calmly walked to t
he window and twitched aside the curtain, watching the sunset over London, thinking. He finally understood.
You think this is me burning you down, Thomas? You’ve taken my son for this? You’ve seen nothing yet of the flames I command. Behind him, in the mantle, the wood caught fire and lit, though no hand touched it. Warmth radiated from the fireplace as Ben studied the imaginary chess board in his mind.
The
Stevenson Home
Craven Street
London, England
March 11th
25
For the Riders
Ben stared at the blank foolscap in front of him, quill in hand, his thoughts elsewhere. Light from the Betty flickered, but the room was well lit and warm, the fireplace behind him at a full roar.
He had been reflecting on his skirmishes with the Penns. The fight with William had changed everything for him. He realized now that he had been taking a purely reactive position, hoping for compromise. The only thing that ever happened when playing to a stalemate was that neither side won, and that had been a mistake he made with the Penns. Here, in their domain, that style of passive play would never prevail. Thomas Penn knew the English game board and pieces far better than Ben ever could, even with help from Peter Collinson, or from Polly and her fellows in the Society of Numbers.
He needed to give the Penns other troubles to deal with. The most direct way to do that was to expand the field to include Pennsylvania, forcing them to distribute their efforts and their resources. They had taken it a step too far, turning his own son against him. Now he would hit the Penn family where it hurt them most, in their balance sheets, and not just this generation of Penns but future ones too. But he must simultaneously shore up the finances of the colony’s government in order to make this an effective strategy.